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SKETCHES BY BOZ. 


ILLUSTRATIVE OF 


/ 


EVERY-DAY LIFE AND EVERY-DAY PEOPLE 


VOLUME I. 



PREFACE. 


The whole of these Sketches were written and pub- 
lished, one by one, when I was a very young man. 
They were collected and republished while I was still 
a very young man ; and sent into the world with all 
their imperfections (a good many) on their heads. 

They comprise my first attempts at authorship — - 
with the exception of certain tragedies achieved at the 
mature age of eight or ten, and represented with great 
applause to overfiowing nurseries. I am conscious of 
their often being extremely crude and ill-considered, 
and bearing obvious marks of haste and inexperience ; 
particularly in that section of the present volume 
which is comprised under the general head of Tales. 

But as this collection is not originated now, and 
was very leniently and favorably received when it was 
first made, I have not felt it right either to remodel 
or expunge, beyond a few words and phrases here and 
there. 


fcWiw| i?nii. xi??J!h =¥ QTyfi sailoJ^iS sfeoitf io •♦Iciiw »'rn’3' 

^ '5" '"O'/ cBW 1 irx‘i'i7' ,‘3at> vd tmo ^d^ii 

[llXi% 6Kn I jfdivf Ix'jL'tdfduq^^i f?iu; : •xJ;i;‘dfou vJi-j.v 

fin Lho.v rjdl OJUi ifin:: fxta ,• iiixm yiiuov vn:j7 k 

.nl*:; d 'iitiifj no ij) anoiJndh^nif 'ii‘t;:i 


— ifrd'Jtoiinfj^ eiqnxolJB toit ^^Rhqmoo 
x?dt ’ tn Jv''/9fdDfi'«)ib3^i?if niallSiJ % nobq5^7!:c^> ;^il} ifllW 
hnvjv 'afirw ,nyi 'ro Ir, r^^J^ '^Lfj'p.ifi 

BTiob^mb crift T .noho^uri ^tu /xofrur/o 61 

d mqbi^o-j-Ui Jbn« •‘^I)UT7 y^hr(uy»i/^} ri n ^ 

; . 7 * noh'>qz£>ai hnji oitJALl 'ta. ujoi/do 

■ Oinnlov ■Jtioao'fq &di io .'iioji^^ ni .yhHitr)i^'iui- 

. 'yf/iT-^o b«8rf linons^ 7di 'it)f)inj> h-^dT^mt^o d »ntw 

■■- . . ,: — 

batftifigho Jod f!f noho^ldo erdt en juff 
fe^w If ni)dw fwioayr vj BiriXi ’y^fin^nrif -i., .;- 

Wm)piuii't ol ‘lodiio tr>rr pvxiJ I l-i^n 

piOif :Y ;/?.>i y. f/H^‘>'i uq/. <, -iv* 


^ . 1 -' 


SKETCHES BY BOZ. 


OUR PARISH. 


CHAPTER 1. 

THE BEADLE. THE PARISH ENGINE. THE SCHOOL- 
MASTER. 

How much is conveyed in those two short words — 

The Parish ! ” And with how many tales . of distress 
and misery, of broken fortune and ruined hopes, too often 
of unrelieved wretchedness and successful knavery, are 
they associated ! A poor man with small earnings, and 
a large family, just manages to live on from hand to 
mouth, and to procure food from day to day ; he has 
barely sufficient to satisfy the present cravings of nature, 
and can take no heed of the future. His taxes are in 
arrear, quarter day passes by, another quarter day ar- 
rives : he can procure no more quarter for himself, and 
is summoned by — the parish. His goods are distrained, 
his children are crying wdth cold and hunger, and the 
very bed on which his sick wife is lying, is dragged from 
beneath her. What can he do ? To whom is he to 
apply for relief? To private charity? To benevolent 
individuals ? Certainly not — there is his parish. There 
are the parish vestry, the parish infirmary, the parish 
Burgeon, the parish officers, the parish beadle. Excellent 


12 


SKETCHES BY BOZ. 


institutions, and gentle, kind-hearted men. The woman 
dies — rshe is buried by the parish. The children have 
no protector — they are taken care of by the parish. The 
man first neglects, and afterwards cannot obtain, work 
— he is relieved by the parish ; and when distress and 
drunkenness have done their work upon him, he is main- 
tained, a harmless babbling idiot, in the parish asylum. 

The parish beadle is one of the most, perhaps iha 
most, important member of the local administration. He 
is not so well off as the churchwardens, certainly, nor is 
he so learned as the vestry-clerk, nor does he order 
things quite so much his own way as either of them. 
But his power is very great, notwithstanding ; and the 
dignity of his office is never impaired by the absence of 
efforts on his part to maintain it. The beadle of our 
parish is a splendid fellow. It is quite delightful to hear 
him, as he explains the state of the existing poor laws to 
the deaf old women in the board-room-passage on busi- 
ness nights ; and to hear what he said to the senioi 
churchwarden, and what the senior churchwarden said to 
him ; and what “ we ” (the beadle and the other gentle- 
men) came to the determination of doing. A miserable- 
looking woman is called into the board-room, and repre- 
sents a case of extreme destitution, affecting herself — a 
widow, with six small children. “ Where do you live ? 
inquires one of the overseers. “ I rents a two-pair back, 
gentlemen, at Mrs. Brown’s, Number 3, Little King Wil- 
liam’s Alley, which has lived there this fifteen year, and 
knows me to be very hard-working and industrious, and 
when my poor husband was alive, gentlemen, as died in 
the hospital” — ^‘Well, well,” interrupts the overseer, 
taking a note of the address, “ I’ll send Simmons, the 
beadle, to-morrow morning, to ascertain whether your 


THE BEADLE. 


13 


Btory is correct ; and if so, I suppose you must have an 
order into the House — Simmons, go to this woman’s the 
first thing to-morrow morning, will you ? ” Simmons 
bows assent, and ushers the woman out. Her previous 
admiration of “ the board ” (who all sit behind great 
books, and with their hats on) fades into nothing before 
lier respect for her lace-trimmed conductor ; and her ac- 
count of what has passed inside, increases — if that be 
possible — the marks of respect, shown by the assembled 
crowd, to that solemn functionary. As to taking out a 
summons, it’s quite a hopeless case if Simmons attends it, 
on behalf of the parish. He knows all the titles of the 
Lord Mayor by heart ; states the case without a single 
stammer : and it is even reported that on one occasion he 
ventured to make a joke, which the Lord Mayor’s head 
footman (who happened to be present) afterwards told 
an intimate friend, confidentially, was almost equal to 
one of Mr. Hobler’s. 

See him again on Sunday in his state-coat and cocked- 
hat, with a large-headed staff for show in his left hand, 
and a small cane for use in his right. How pompously 
he marshals the children into their places ! and how de- 
murely the little urchins look at him askance as he sur- 
veys thenj when they are all seated, with a glare of the 
eye peculiar to beadles ! The churchwardens and over- 
seers being duly installed in their curtained pews, he 
seats himself on a mahogany bracket, erected expressly 
lor him at the top of the aisle, and divides his attention 
between his prayer-book and the boys. Suddenly, just 
at the commencement of the communion service, when 
the whole congregation is hushed into a profound silence, 
broken only by the voice of the officiating clergyman, a 
penny is heard to ring on the stone floor of the aisle with 


14 


SKETCHES BY BOZ. 


astounding clearness. Observe the generalship of the 
beadle. His involuntary look of horror is instantly 
changed into one of perfect indifference, as if he were 
the only person present who had not heard the noise. 
The artifice succeeds. After putting forth his right leg 
now and then, as a feeler, the victim who dropped the 
money ventures to make one or two distinct dives after 
it ; and the beadle, gliding softly round, salutes his little 
round head, when it again appears above the seat, with 
divers double knocks, administered with the cane before 
noticed, to the intense delight of three young men in an 
adjacent pew, who cough violently at intervals until the 
conclusion of the sermon. 

Such are a few traits of the importance and gravity 
of a parish-beadle — a gravity which has never been dis- 
turbed in any case that has come under our observation, 
except when the services of that particularly useful 
machine, a parish fire-engine, are required : then indeed 
all is bustle. Two little boys run to the beadle as fast 
as their legs will carry them, and report from their own 
personal observation tliat some neighboring chimney is 
on fire ; the engine is hastily got out, and a plentiful 
supply of boys being obtained, and harnessed to it with 
ropes, away they rattle over the pavement, the beadle, 
runningc — we do not exaggerate — running at the side, 
until they arrive at some house, smelling strongly of soot, 
at the door of which the beadle knocks with considerable 
gravity for half an hour. No attention being paid to 
these manual applications, and the turn-cock having 
turned on the w^ater, the engine turns off amidst the 
shouts of the boys ; it pulls up once more at the work- 
house, and the beadle “ pulls up ” the unfortunate house- 
holder next day, for the amount of his legal reward. 


THE PARISH ENGINE. 


15 


We never saw a parish engine at a regular fire but 
once. It came up in gallant style — three miles and a 
half an hour, at least ; there was a capital supply of 
water, and it was first on the spot. Bang went the 
pumps — the people cheered — the beadle perspired pro- 
fusely ; but it was unfortunately discovered, just as they 
were going to put the fire out, that nobody understood 
the process by which the engine was filled with water ; 
and that eighteen boys, and a man, had exhausted them- 
selves in pumping for twenty minutes, witliout producing 
the slightest effect ! 

The personages next in impoilance to the beadle, are 
the master of the workhouse and the parish schoolmaster. 
The vestry-clerk, as everybody knows, is a short, pudgy 
little man, in black, with a thick gold watch-chain of 
considerable length, terminating in two large seals and a 
key. He is an attorney, and generally in a bustle ; at no 
time more so than when he is hurrying to some parochial 
meeting, with his gloves crumpled up in one hand, and a 
large red book under the other arm. As to the church- 
wardens and overseers, we exclude them altogether, be- 
cause all we know of them is, tliat they are usually 
respectable tradesmen, who wear hats with brims inclined 
to flatness, and who occasionally testify in gilt letters on 
a blue ground, in some conspicuous part of the church, 
to tlie important fact of a gallery having been enlarged 
and beautified, or an organ rebuilt. 

The master of the workhouse is not, in our parish — 
nor is he usually in any other — one of that class of men 
the better part of whose existence has passed away, and 
who drag out the remainder in some inferior situation, 
^flth just enough thought of the past, to feel degraded 
by, and discontented with, the present. We are unable 


16 


SKETCHES BY BOZ. 


to guess precisely to our own satisfaction what station the 
man can have occupied before ; we should think he had 
been an inferior sort of attorney’s clerk, or else the mas- 
ter of a national school — whatever he was, it is clear 
his present position is a change for the better. His 
income is small certainly, as the rusty black coat and 
threadbare velvet collar demonstrate : but then he li\ es 
free of house-rent, has a limited allowance of coals and 
candles, and an almost unlimited allowance of authority 
in his petty kingdom. He is a tali, thin, bony man ; 
always wears shoes and black cotton stockings with his 
surtout ; and eyes you, as you pass his parlor window, as 
if he wished you were a pauper, just to give you a speci- 
men of his power. He is an admirable specimen of a 
small tyrant : morose, brutish, and ill-tempered ; bullying 
to his inferiors, cringing to his superiors, and jealous of 
the influence and authority of the beadle. 

Our schoolmaster is just the very reverse of this ami- 
able official. He has been one of those men one occa- 
sionally hears of, on whom misfortune seems to have set 
her mark ; nothing he ever did, or was concerned in, ap- 
pears to have prospered. A rich old relation who had 
brought him up, and openly announced his intention of 
providing for him, left him 10,000/. in his will, and re- 
voked the bequest in a codicil. Thus unexpectedly re- 
duced to the necessity of providing for himself, he proimred 
a situation in a public office. The young clerks below him, 
died off as if there wa& a plague among them ; but the 
old fellows over his head, for the reversion of* whose 
places he was anxiously waiting, lived on and on, as if 
they were immortal. He speculated and lost. He spec- 
ulated again, and won — but never got his money. His 
talents were great ; his disposition, easy, generous, and 


THE SCHOOLMASTER. 


17 


liberal. His friends profited by the one, and abused the 
other. Loss succeeded loss ; misfortune crowded on 
misfortune ; each successive day brought him nearer the 
verge of hopeless penury, and the quondam friends who 
had been warmest in their professions, grew strangely 
cold and indifferent. He had children whom he loved, 
and a wife on whom he doted. The former turned their 
backs on him ; the latter died broken-hearted. He went 
with the stream — it had ever been his failing, and he had 
not courage sufficient to bear up against so many shocks 
— he had never cared for himself, and the only being who 
had cared for him, in his poverty and distress, was spared 
to him no longer. It w^as at this period that he applied 
for parochial relief. Some kind-hearted man who had 
known him in happier times, chanced to’be churchwarden 
that year, and through his interest he was appointed to 
his present situation. 

He is an old man now. Of the many who once 
crowded round him in all the hollow friendship of boon 
companionship, some have died, some have fallen like 
himself, some have prospered — all have forgotten him.' 
Time and misfortune have mercifully been permitted to 
impair his memory, and use has habituated him to his 
present condition. Meek, uncomplaining, and zealous in 
the discharge of his duties, he has been allowed to hold 
iiis situation long beyond the usual period ; and he will 
no doubt continue to hold it, until infirmity renders him 
incapable, or death releases him. As the gray-headed 
old man feebly paces up and down the sunny side of the 
little court-yard between school hours, it would be diffi- 
cult, indeed, for the most intimate of his former friends 
to recognize their once gay and happy associate, in the 
person of the Pauper Schoolmaster. 

2 


VOL. I. 


18 


SKETCHES BY BOZ 


CHAPTER 11. 

THE CURATE. THE OLD LADY. THE HALF-PAY CAP'rAl^^ 

We commenced our last chapter with the beadle of 
our parish, because we are deeply sensible of the impor- 
tance and dignity of his office. We will begin the present, 
with the clergyman. Our curate is a young gentleman 
of such prepossessing appearance, and fascinating man- 
ners, that within one month after his first appearance in 
the parish, half the young-lady inhabitants were melan- 
choly with religion, and the other half, desponding with 
love. Never were so many young ladies seen in our 
parish-church on Sunday before ; and never had the little 
round angels’ faces on Mr. Tomkin’s monument in the 
side-aisle, beheld such devotion on earth as they all ex- 
hibited. He was about five-and-twenty when he first 
came to astonish the parishioners. He parted his hair 
on the centre of his forehead in the form of a Norman 
arch, wore a brilliant of the first water on the fourth fin- 
ger of his left hand (which he always applied to his left 
cheek when he read prayers), and had a deep sepulchral 
voice of unusual solemnity. Innumerable were the calls 
made by prudent mammas on our new curate, and innu- 
merable the invitations with which he was assailed, and 
wliich, to do him justice, he readily accepted. If his 
manner in the pulpit had created an impression in his 
favor, the sensation was increased tenfold, by his appear- 
ance in private circles. Pews in the immediate vicinity 
of the pulpit or reading-desk rose in value ; sittings in 


THE CURATE. 


19 


the centre aisle were at a premium : an inch of room in 
the front row of the gallery could not be procured for 
love or money ; and some people even went so far as to 
assert, that the three Miss Browns, who had an obscure 
family pew just behind the churchwardens’, were detected, 
one Sunday, in the free seats by the communion-table, 
actually lying in wait for the curate as he passed to the 
vestry ! He began to preach extempore sermons, and 
even grave papas caught the infection. He got out of 
bed at half-past twelve o’clock one winter’s night, to half- 
baptize a washerwoman’s child in a slop-basin, and the 
gratitude of the parishioners knew no bounds — the very 
churchwardens grew generous, and insisted on the parish 
defraying the expense of the watch-box on wheels which 
the new curate had ordered for himself, to perform the fu- 
neral service in, in wet weather. He sent three pints of 
gruel and a quarter of a pound of tea to a poor woman 
who had been brought to bed of four small children, all at 
once — the parish were charmed. He got up a subscrip- 
tion for her — the woman’s fortune was made. He spoke 
for one hour and twenty-five minutes, at an anti-slavery 
meeting at the Goat and Boots — the enthusiasm was 
at its height. A proposal was set on foot for presenting 
the curate with a piece of plate, as a mark of esteem for 
his valuable services rendered to the parish. The list 
of subscriptions was filled up in no time ; the contest 
was, not who should escape the contribution, but who 
should be the foremost to subscribe. A splendid silver 
inkstand was made, and engraved with an appropriate 
inscription ; the curate was invited to a public break- 
fast, at the before-mentioned Goat and Boots ; the ink- 
stand was presented in a neat speech by Mr. GubbinS, 
the ex-churchwarden, and acknowledged by the curate 


20 


SKETCHES BY BOZ. 


in terms which drew tears into the eyes of all present 
— the very waiters were melted. 

One would have supposed that, by this time, the theme 
of universal admiration was lifted to the very pinnacle 
of popularity. No such thing. The curate began to 
cough ; four fits of coughing one morning between the 
Litany and the Epistle, and five in the afternoon service. 
Here was a discovery — the curate was consumptive. 
How interestingly melancholy! If the young ladies 
were energetic before, their sympathy and solicitude now 
knew no bounds. Such a man as the curate — such a 
dear — such a perfect love — to be consumptive ! It 
was too much. Anonymous presents of black cuiTant 
jam, and lozenges, elastic waistcoats, bosom friends, and 
warm stockings, poured in upon the curate until he was 
as completely fitted out, with winter clothing, as if he 
were on the verge of an expedition to the North Pole : 
verbal bulletins of the state of his health were circulated 
throughout the parish half a dozen times a day ; and the 
curate was in the very zenith of his popularity. 

About this period, a change came over the spirit of 
the parish. A very quiet, respectable, dozing old gen- 
tleman, who had officiated in our chapel of ease for twelve 
years previously, died one fine morning, without having 
given any notice whatever of his intention. The circum- 
stance gave rise to counter-sensation the first ; and the 
arrival of his successor occasioned counter-sensation the 
second. He Avas a pale, thin, cadaverous man, with large 
black eyes, and long straggling black hair : his dress Avas 
slovenly in the extreme, his manner ungainly, his doc- 
trines startling ; in short, he was in every respect the an- 
tipodes of the curate. CroAvds of our female parishioners 
flocked to hear him : at first, because he was so odd-look- 


THE OLD LADY. 


21 


ing, then because his face was so expressive, then because 
he preached so well ; and at Iflst, because they really 
thought, after all, there was something about him which 
it was quite impossible to describe. As to the curate, he 
was all very v/ell ; but certainly, after all, there was no 
denying that — that — in short, the curate wasn’t a nov- 
elty, and the other clergyman was. The inconstancy of 
public opinion is proverbial : the congregation migrated 
one by one. The curate coughed till he was black in the 
fiice — it was in vain. He respired with difficulty — it 
was equally ineffectual in awakening sympathy. Seats 
are once again to be had in any part of our parish church, 
and the chapel-of-ease is going to be enlarged, as it is 
crowded to suffocation every Sunday ! 

The best known and most respected among our parish- 
ioners, is an old lady, who resided in our parish long be- 
fore our name was registered in the list of. baptisms. Our 
parish is a suburban one, and the old lady lives in a neat 
row of houses in the most airy and pleasant part of it. 
The house is her own ; and it, and everything about it, 
except the old lady herself, who looks a little older than 
she did ten years ago, is in just the same state as when 
the old gentleman was living. The little front parlor, 
which is the old lady’s ordinary sitting-room, is a perfect 
picture of quiet neatness : the c^u-pet is covered with 
brown Holland, the glass and picture-frames are carefully 
enveloped in yellow muslin ; the table-covers are never 
taken off, except when the leaves are turpentined and 
bees’waxed, an operation which is regularly commenced 
every other morning at half-past nine o’clock — and the 
little knick-knacks are always arranged in precisely the 
same manner. The greater part of these are presents 
from little girls whose parents reside in the same row ; 


22 


SKETCHES BY BOZ. 


but some of them, such as the two old-fashioned watches 
(which never keep the ^same time, one being always a 
quarter of an hour too slow, and the other a quarter of 
an hour too fast), the little picture of the Princess Char- 
lotte and Prince Leopold as they appeared in the Royal 
Box at Drury Lane Theatre, and others of the same class, 
have been in the old lady’s possession for many years. 
Here the old lady sits with her spectacles on, busily en- 
gaged in needlework — near the window in summer time ; 
and if she sees you coming up the steps, and you happen 
to be a favorite, she trots out to open the street door for 
you before you knock, and as you must be fatigued after 
that hot walk, insists on your swallowing two glasses of 
sherry before you exert yourself by talking. If you call 
in the evening you will find her cheerful, but rather 
more serious than usual, with an open Bible on the table, 
before her, of which “ Sarah,” who is just as neat and 
methodical as her mistress, regularly reads two or tliree 
chapters in the parlor aloud. 

The old lady sees scarcely any company, except the 
little girls before noticed, each of whom has always a 
regular fixed day for a periodical tea-drinking with her, 
to which the child looks forward as the greatest treat of 
its existence. She seldom visits at a greater distance 
than the next door but one on either side ; and when she 
drinks tea here, Sarah runs out first and knocks a double- 
knock, to prevent the possibility of her Missis’s ” catch- 
ing cold by having to wait at the door. She is very 
scrupulous in returning these little invitations, and when 
she asks Mr. and Mrs. So-and-so, to meet Mr. and Mrs. 
Somebody-else, Sarah and she dust the urn, and the best 
china tea-service, and the Pope Joan board ; and the 
visitors are received in the drawing-room in great state. 


THE OLD LADY. 


23 


She has but few relations, and they are scattered about 
in different parts of the country, and she seldom sees 
them. She has a son in India, whom she always de- 
scribes to you as a fine, handsome fellow — so like the 
profile of his poor dear father over the sideboard, but the 
old lady adds, with a mournful shake of the head, that 
he has always been one of her greatest trials, and that 
indeed he once almost broke her heart ; but it pleased 
God to enable her to get the better of it, and she would 
prefer your never mentioning the subject to her, again. 
She has a great number of pensioners ; and on Saturday, 
after she comes back from market, there is a regular levee 
of old men and women in the passage, waiting for their 
weekly gratuity. Her name always heads the list of any 
benevolent subscriptions, and hers are always the most 
liberal donations to the Winter Coal and Soup Distribu- 
tion Society. She subscribed twenty pounds towards the 
erection of an ‘organ in our parish church, and was so 
overcome the first Sunday the children sang to it, that she 
was obliged to be carried out by the pew-opener. Her 
entrance into church on Sunday is always the signal for 
a little bustle in the side-aisle, occasioned by a general 
rise among the poor people, who bow and courtesy until 
the pew-opener has ushered the old lady into her accus- 
tomed seat, dropped a respectful courtesy, and shut the 
door : and the same ceremony is repeated on her leaving 
church, when she walks home with the family next door 
but one, and talks about the sermon all the way, inva- 
riably opening the conversation by asking the youngest 
boy where the text was. 

Thus, with the annual variation of a trip to some quiet 
place on the sea-coast, passes the old lady’s life. It has 
rolled on in the same unvarying and benevolent course 


24 


SKETCHES BY BOZ. 


for many years now, and must at no distant period be 
brought to its final close. She looks forward to its ter- 
mination, with calmness and without apprehension. She 
has everything to hope and nothing to fear. 

A very different personage, but one who has rendered 
himself very conspicuous in our parish, is one of the old 
lady’s next-door neighbors. He is an old naval officer 
on half-pay, and his bluff and unceremonious behavior 
disturbs the old lady’s domestic economy, not a little. In 
the first place, he will smoke cigars in the front court, 
and when he wants something to drink with them — 
which is by no means an uncommon circumstance — he 
lifts up the old lady’s knocker with his walking-stick, and 
demands to have a glass of table-ale, handed over the 
rails. In addition to this cool proceeding, he is a bit of z. 
Jack-of-all-trades, or to use his own words, “ A regular 
Robinson Crusoe ; ” and nothing delights him better than 
to experimentalize on the old lady’s property. One 
morning he got up early, and planted three or four roots 
of full-grown marigolds in every bed of her front garden, 
to the inconceivable astonishment of the old lady, who 
actually thought when she got up and looked out of the 
window, that it was some strange eruption which had 
come out in the. night. Another time he took to pieces 
tlie eight-day clock on the front landing, under pretence 
of cleaning the works, which he put together again by 
some undiscovered process in so wonderful a manner, 
that the large hand has done nothing but trip up the 
little one ever since. Then he took to breeding silk- 
worms, which he would bring in two or three times a 
day, in little paper boxes, to show the old lady, generally 
dropping a worm or two at every visit. The consequence 
was, that one morning a very stout silk-worm was discov- 


THE CAPTAIN. 


25 


ered in the act of walking up-stairs — probably with the 
view of inquiring after his friends, for, on further inspec- 
tion, it appeared that some of his companions had already 
found their wrj to every room in the house. The old 
lady went to the sea-side in despair, and during her 
absence he completely effaced the name from her brass 
door-plate, in his attempts to polish it with aqua-fortis. 

But all this is nothing to his seditious conduct in pub- 
lic life. He attends every vestry meeting that is held ; 
always opposes the constituted authorities of the parish, 
denounces the profligacy of the churchwardens, contests 
legal points against the vestry-clerk, will make the tax- 
gatherer call for his money till he won’t call any longer, 
and then he sends it : finds fault with the sermon every 
Sunday, says that the organist ought to be ashamed of 
himself, offers to back himself for any amount to sing the 
psalms better than all the children put together, male 
and female ; and, in short, conducts himself in the most 
turbulent and uproarious manner. The worst of it is, 
that having a high regard for the old lady, he wants to 
make her a convert to his views, and therefore walks into 
her little parlor with his newspaper in his hand, and talks 
violent politics by the hour. He is a charitable, open- 
hearted old fellow at bottom, after all ; so, although he 
puts the old lady a little out occasionally, they agree very 
well in the main, and she laughs as much at each feat of 
his handiwork when it is all over, as anybody else. 


26 


SKETCHES BY BOZ. 


CHAPTER III. 

THE FOUR SISTERS. 

The row of houses in which the old lady and her 
troublesome neighbor reside, comprises, beyond all doubt, 
a greater number of characters within its circumscribed 
limits, than all the rest of the parish put together. As 
we cannot, consistently with our present plan, however, 
extend the number of our parochial sketches beyond six, 
it will be better, perhaps, to select the most peculiar, and 
to introduce them at once without further preface. 

The four Miss Willises, then, settled in our parish 
thirteen years ago. It is a melancholy reflection that 
the old adage, “time and tide wait for no man,’* applies 
with equal force to the fairer portion of the creation ; 
and willingly would we conceal the fact, that even thir- 
teen years ago, the Miss Willises were far from juvenile. 
Our duty as faithful parochial chroniclers, however, is 
paramount to every other consideration, and we are 
bound to state, that thirteen years since, the authorities 
in matrimonial cases considered the youngest Miss Willis 
in a very precarious state, while the eldest sister was 
.positively given over, as being far beyond all human 
hope. Well, the Miss Willises took a lease of the 
house ; it was fresh painted and papered from top to bot- 
tom : the paint inside was all wainscoted, the marble all 
cleaned, the old grates taken down, and register-stoves, 
you could see to dress by, put up ; four trees were 
planted in the back garden, several small baskets of 


THE FOUR SISTERS. 


27 


gravel sprinkled over the front one, vans of elegant fur- 
niture arrived, spring blinds were fitted to the windows 
carpenters who had been employed in the various prepa- 
rations, alterations, and repairs, made confidential state- 
ments to the different maid-servants in the row, relative 
to the magnificent scale on which the Miss Willises were 
commencing; the maid-servants told their ‘‘Missises,” 
the Missises told their friends, and vague rumors were 
circulated throughout the parish, that No. 25, in Gordon- 
place, had been taken by four maiden ladies of immense 
property. 

At last, the Miss Willises moved in ; and then the 
“ calling ” began. The house was the perfection of neat- 
ness — so were the four Miss Willises. Everything was 
formal, stiff, and cold — so were the four Miss Willises. 
Not a single chair of the whole set was ever seen out of 
its place — not a single Miss Willis of the whole four 
was ever seen out of hers. There they always sat, in 
the same places, doing precisely the same things at the 
same hour. The eldest Miss Willis used to knit, the 
second to draw, the two others to play duets on the 
piano. They seemed to have no separate existence, i^ut 
to have made up their minds just to winter through life 
together.. They were three long graces in drapery, with 
the addition, like a school-dinner of another long grace 
afterwards — the three fates with another sister — the 
Siamese twins multiplied by two. The eldest Miss 
Willis grew bilious — the four Miss Willises grew bil- 
ious immediately. The eldest Miss Willis grew ill- 
tempered and religious — the four Miss Willises were 
ill-tempered and religious directly. Whatever the eldest 
did, the others did, and whatever anybody else did, they 
all disapproved of ; and thus they vegetated — living in 


28 


SKETCHES BY BOZ. 


Polar harmony among themselves, and, as they some- 
times went out, or saw company “ in a quiet way ” at 
home, occasionally iceing the neighbors. Three years 
passed over in this way, when an unlooked for and ex- 
traordinary phenomenon occurred. The Miss Willises 
showed symptoms of summer, the frost gradually broke 
up ; a complete thaw took place. Was it possible ? one 
of the four Miss Willises was going to be married ! 

Now, where on earth the husband came from, by what 
feelings the poor man could have been actuated, or by 
what process of reasoning the four MUss Willises suc- 
ceeded in persuading themselves that it was possible for 
a man to marry one of them, without marrying them all, 
are questions too profound for us to resolve : certain it is, 
however, that the visits of Mr. Robinson (a gentleman 
in a public office, with a good salary and a little property 
of his own, beside) were received — that the four Miss 
Willises were courted in due form by the said Mr. Rob- 
inson — that the neighbors were perfectly frantic in their 
anxiety to discover which of the four Miss Willises was 
the fortunate fair, and that the difficulty they experienced 
involving the problem was not at all lessened by the 
announcement of the eldest Miss Willis, — are go- 
ing to marry Mr. Robinson.” 

It was very extraordinary. They w^ere so completely 
identified, the one with the other, that the curiosity of the 
whole row — even of the old lady herself — was roused 
almost beyond endurance. The subject was discussed at 
every little card-table and tea-drinking. The old gentle- 
man of silk- worm notoriety did not hesitate to express 
his decided opinion that Mr. Robinson was of Eastern 
descent, and contemplated marrying the whole family at 
once ; and the row, generally, shook their heads with 


THE POUR SISTERS. 


29 


considerable gravity, and declared the business to be 
very mysterious. They hoped it might all end well ; — 
it certainly had a very singular appearance, but still it 
would be uncharitable to express any opinion without 
good grounds to go upon, and certainly the Miss Willises 
were quite old enough to judge for themselves, and to be 
sure people ought to know their own business best, and 
so forth. 

At last, one fine morning, at a quarter before eight 
o'clock, A.M., two glass coaches drove up to the JMiss 
Willises’ door at which Mr. Robinson had arrived in a 
cab ten minutes before, dressed in a light blue coat 
and double-milled kersey pantaloons, white neckerchief, 
pumps, and dress-gloves,, his manner denoting, as ap- 
peared from the evidence of the housemaid at No. 23, 
who was sweeping the door-steps at the time, a consider- 
able degree of nervous excitement. It was also hastily 
reported on the same testimony, that the cook who 
opened the door, wore a large white bow of unusual 
dimensions, in a much smarter head-dress than the regu- 
lation cap to which the Miss Willises invariably re- 
stricted the somewhat excursive taste of female ser- 
vants in general. 

The intelligence spread rapidly from house to house. 
It was quite clear that the eventful morning had at 
length arrived ; the whole row’^ stationed themselves be- 
hind their first and second floor blinds, and waited the 
result in breathless expectation. 

At last the Miss Willises’ door opened ; the door of the 
first glass coach did the same. Two gentlemen and a 
pair of ladies to correspond — friends of the family, 
ao doubt ; up went the steps, bang went the door, off 
went the first glass coach, and up came the second. 


30 


SKETCHES BY BOZ. 


The street-door opened again ; the excitement of the 
whole row increased — Mr. Robinson and the eldest 
Miss Willis. “ I thought so,” said the lady at No. 19 ; 
“ I always said it was Miss Willis ! ” — “ Well, I never !” 
ejaculated the young lady at No. 18 to the young lady 
at No. 17 — “ Did you ever, dear! ” responded the young 
lady at No. 17 to the young lady at No. 18. “It’s too 
ridiculous ! ” exclaimed a spinster of an uncertain age, at 
No. 16, joining in the conversation. But who shall por- 
tray the astonishment of Gordon Place, when Mr. Robin- 
son handed in all the Miss Willises, one after the other, 
and then squeezed himself into an acute angle of the 
glass-coach, wdiich forthwith proceeded at a brisk pace, 
after the other glass coach, which other glass coach had 
itself proceeded, at a brisk pace, in the direction of the 
parish church. Who shall depict the perplexity of the 
clergyman, when all the Miss V/illises knelt down at the 
communion table, and repeated the responses incidental 
to the marriage service in an audible voice — or who 
shall describe the confusion which prevailed, when — 
even after the difficulties thus occasioned had been ad- 
justed — all the Miss Willises went into hysterics at the 
conclusion of the ceremony, until the sacred edifice re- 
sounded with their united wailings I 

As the four sisters and Mr. Robinson continued to 
occupy the same house after this memorable occasion, 
and as the married sister, whoever she was, never ap- 
peared in public without the other three, we are not 
quite clear that the neighbors ever would have discovered 
the real Mrs. Robinson, but for a circumstance of the 
most gratifying description, which will happen occasion- 
ally in the best regulated families. Three quarter days 
elapsed, and the row, on whom a new light app^^ared to 


THE FOUR SISTERS. 


81 


have been bursting for some time, began to speak with a 
sort of implied confidence on the subject, and to wonder 
how Mrs. Robinson — the youngest Miss Willis that was 
— got on ; and servants might be seen running up the 
steps, about nine or ten o’clock every morning, with 
“Missis’s compliments, and wishes to know how Mrs. 
Robinson finds herself this morning ? ” And the answer 
always was, “ Mrs. Robinson’s compliments, and she’s in 
very good spirits, and doesn’t find herself any worse.” 
The piano was heard no longer, the knitting-needles 
were laid aside, drawing was neglected, and mantua- 
making and millinery, on the smallest scale imaginable, 
appeared to have become the favorite amusement of the 
whole family. The parlor wasn’t quite as tidy as it used 
to be, and if you called in the morning, you would see 
lying on a table, with an old newspaper carelessly 
thrown over them, two or three particularly small 
caps, rather larger than if they had been made for a 
moderate-sized doll, with a small piece of lace, in the 
shape of a horse-shoe, let in behind : or perhaps a white 
robe, not very large in circumference, but very much out 
of proportion in point of length, with a little tucker 
round the top, and a frill round the bottom; and once 
when we called, we saw a long white roller, with a kind 
of blue margin down each side, the probable use of 
which, we were at a loss to conjecture. Tlien we fancied 
that Mr. Dawson, the surgeon, &c., who displays a large 
lamp with a different color in every pane of glass, at the 
corner of the row, began to be knocked up at night 
oftener than he used to be ; and once we were very much 
alarmed by hearing a hackney-coach stop at Mrs. Rob- 
inson’s door, at half past twm o’clock in the morning, out 
of wdiich. there emerged a fat old woman, in a cloak and 


32 


SKETCHES BY BOZ. 


night-cap. with a bundle in one hand, and a pair of 
pattens in the other, who looked as if she had been 
suddenly knocked up out of bed for some very special 
purpose. 

When we got up in the morning we saw that the 
knocker was tied up in an old white kid glove ; and we, 
in our innocence (we were in a state of bachelorship 
then), wondered what on earth it all meant, until we 
heard the eldest Miss Willis, in propnd persona^ say, 
with great dignity, in answer to the next inquiry, 
compliments, and Mrs. Robinson’s doing as well as can 
■be expected, and the little girl thrives wonderfully.” 
And then, in common with tlie rest of the row, our 
curiosity was satisfied, and we began to wonder it had 
never occurred to us what the matter was, before. 


CHAPTER IV. 

THE ELECTION FOR BEADLE. 

A GREAT event has recently occurred in our parish. 
A contest of paramount interest has just terminated; a 
parochial convulsion has taken place. It has been suc- 
ceeded by a glorious triumph, which the country — or at 
least the parish — it is all the same — will long remem- 
ber. AVe had had an election ; an election for beadle. 
The supporters of the old beadle system have been de- 
feated in their stronghold, and the advocates of the great 
new beadle principles have achieved a proud victory. 

Our parish, which, like all other parishes, is a little 


THE ELECTION FOR BEADLE. 


33 


world of its own, has long been divided into two parties, 
whose contentions, slumbering for a while, have never 
failed to burst forth with unabated vigor, on any occa- 
sion on Avhich they could by possibility be renewed. 
Watching-rates, lighting-rates, paving-rates, sewers’-rates, 
church-rates, poor’s-rates — all sorts of rates, have been 
in their turns the subjects of a grand struggle ; and as 
to questions of patronage, the asperity and determina- 
tion with which they have been contested is scarcely 
credible. 

The leader of the official party — the steady advocate 
of the churchwardens, and the unflinching supporter of 
the overseers — is an old gentleman who lives in our 
row. He owns some half-dozen houses in it, and always 
walks on the opposite side of the way, so that he may be 
able to take in a view of the whole of his property at 
once. He is a tall, thin, bony man, with an interrogative 
nose, and little restless perking eyes, which appear to 
have been given him for the sole purpose of peeping into 
other people’s affairs with. He is deeply impressed with 
the importance of our parish business, and prides himself, 
not a little, on his style of addressing the parishioners in 
vestry assembled. His views are rather confined than 
extensive ; his principles more narrow than liberal. He 
has been heard to declaim very loudly in favor of the 
liberty of the press, and advocates the repeal of the stamp 
duty on newspapers, because the daily journals who now 
have a monopoly of the public, never give verlatim re- 
ports of vestry meetings. He would not appear egotisti- 
cal for the world, but at the same time he must say, that 
there are speeches — that celebrated speech of his own, 
on the emoluments of the sexton, and the duties of the 
office, for instance — which might be communieated to 
3 


VOL. I. 


34 


SKETCHES BY BOZ. 


the public, greatly to their improvement and advan- 
tage. 

His great opponent in public life is Captain Purday, 
the old naval oihcer on half-pay, to whom we have al- 
ready introduced our readers. The captain being a de- 
termined opponent of the constituted authorities, whoever 
they may chance to be, and our other friend being their 
steady supporter, with an equal disregard of their individ- 
ual merits, it will readily be supposed, that occasions for 
their coming into direct collision are neither few nor far 
between. They divided the vestry fourteen times on a 
motion for heating the church with warm water instead 
of coals ; and made speeches about liberty and expendi- 
ture, and prodigality and hot water, which threw tlie 
whole parish into a state of excitement. Then the cap- 
tain, when he was on the visiting committee, and his 
opponent overseer, brought forward certain distinct and 
specific charges relative to the management of the work- 
house, boldly expressed his total want of confidence in 
the existing authorities, and moved for “a copy of the 
recipe by which the paupers’ soup was prepared, together 
with any documents relating thereto.” This the overseer 
steadily resisted ; he fortified himself by precedent, ap- 
pealed to the established usage, and declined to produce 
the papers, on the ground of the injury that would be 
done to the public service, if documents of a strictly pri- 
vate nature, passing between the master of the workhouse 
and the cook, were to be thus dragged to light on the mo- 
tion of any individual member of the vestry. The mo- 
tion was lost by a majority of two ; and then the captain, 
who never allows himself to be defeated, moved for a 
committee of inquiry into the whole subject. The affair 
grew serious : the question was discussed at meeting after 


THE ELECTION FOR BEADLE. 


35 


meeting, and vestry after vestry ; speeches were made, at- 
tacks repudiated, personal defiances exchanged, explana- 
tions received, and the greatest excitement prevailed, 
until at last, just as the question was going to be finally 
decided, the vestry found that somehow or other, they had 
become entangled in a point of form, from which it was 
impossible to escape with propriety. So, the motion was 
dropped, and everybody looked extremely important, and 
seemed quite satisfied with the meritorious nature of the 
whole proceeding. 

This was the state of affairs in our parish a week or 
two since, when Simmons, the beadle, suddenly died. 
The lamented deceased had over-exerted himself,, a day 
or two previously, in conveying an aged female, highly 
intoxicated, to the strong room of the workhouse. The 
excitement thus occasioned, added to a severe cold, which 
this indefatigable officer had caught in his capacity of 
director of the parish engine, by inadvertently playing 
over himself instead of a fire, proved too much for a con- 
stitution already enfeebled by age ; and the intelligence 
was conveyed to the Board one evening that Simmons 
had died, and left his respects. 

The breath was scarcely out of the body of the de- 
ceased functionary, when the field was filled with competi- 
tors for the vacant office, each of whom rested his claims 
to public support, entirely on the number and extent of 
his family, as if the office of beadle were originally in- 
stituted as an encouragement for the propagation of 
the human species. “ Bung ff)r Beadle. Five small 
children ! ” — “ Hopkins for Beadle. Seven small 
children ! ! ” — “ Timkinsvfor Beadle. Nine small chil- 
dren ! ! ! ” Such were the placards in large black letters 
on a white ground, which were plentifully pasted on the 


36 


SKETCHES BY BOZ. 


walls, and posted in the windows of the principal shops. 
Timkins’s success was considered certain : several moth- 
ers of families half promised their votes, and the nine 
small children would have run over the course, but for 
the production of another placard, announcing the appear- 
ance of a still more meritorious candidate. “ Spruggins 
for Beadle. Ten small children (two of them twins), 
and a wife ! ! ! ” There was no resisting this ; ten small 
children would have been almost irresistible in them- 
selves, without tlie twins, but the touching parenthesis 
about that interesting production of nature, and the still 
more touching allusion to Mrs. Spruggins, must insure 
success. Spruggins was the favorite at once, and the ap- 
pearance of his lady, as she went about to solicit votes 
(which encouraged confident hopes of a still further ad- 
dition to the house of Spruggins at no remote period), 
increased the general prepossession in his favor. The 
other candidates. Bung alone excepted, resigned in de- 
spair. The day of election was fixed ; and the canvass 
proceeded with briskness and perseverance on both sides. 

The members of the vestry could not be supposed to 
escape the contagious excitement inseparable from the 
occasion. The majority of the lady inhabitants of the 
parish declared at once for Spruggins ; and the quondam 
overseer took the same side, on the ground that men with 
large families always had been elected to the office, and 
that although he must admit, that, in other respects, 
Spruggins was the least qualified candidate of the two, 
still it was an old practice, and he saw no reason why an 
old practice should be departed from. This was enough 
ior the captain. He immediately sided with Bung, can- 
vassed for him personally in all directions, wrote squibs 
on Spruggins, and got his butcher to skewer them up on 


THE ELECTION FOR BEADLE. 


37 


conspicuous joints in his shop-front ; frightened his neigh- 
bor, the old lady, into a palpitation of the heart, by his 
awful denunciations of Spruggins’s party, and bounced 
in and out, and up and down, and backwards and for- 
wards, until all the sober inhabitants of the parish 
thought it inevitable that he must die of a brain-fever, 
long before the election began. 

The day of election arrived. It was no longer an 
individual struggle, but a party contest between the ins 
and outs. The question was, whether the withering in- 
fluence of the overseers, the domination of the church- 
wardens, and the blighting despotism of the vestry-clerk, 
should be allowed to render the election of beadle a form 
— a nullity : whether they should impose a vestry-elected 
beadle on the parish, to do their bidding and forward 
their views, or whether the parishioners, fearlessly assert- 
ing their undoubted rights, should elect an independent 
beadle of their own. 

The nomination was fixed to take place in the vestry, 
but so great was the throng of anxious spectators, that it 
was found necessary to adjourn to the church, where the 
ceremony commenced with due solemnity. The appear- 
ance of the churchwardens and overseers, and the ex- 
churchwardens, and ex-overseers, with Spruggins in the 
rear, excited general attention. Spruggins was a little 
thin man, in rusty black, with a long pale face, and a 
countenance expressive of care and fatigue, which might 
either be attributed to the extent of his family or the 
anxiety of his feelings. His opponent appeared in a 
cast-off coat of the captain’s — a blue coat with bright 
buttons : white trousers, and that description of shoes 
familiarly known by the appellation of “ high-lows.” 
There was a serenity in the open countenance of Bung 


38 


SKETCHES BY BOZ. 


— a kind of moral dignity in his confident air — an I 
wish you may get it ” sort of expression in his eye — ■ 
which infused animation into his supporters, and evi- 
dently dispirited his opponents. 

Tiie ex-churchwarden rose to propose Thomas Sprug- 
gins for beadle. He had known him long. He had had 
his eye upon him closely for years ; he had watched him 
with twofold vigilance for months. (A parishioner here 
suggested that this might be termed ^Haking a double 
sight,” but the observation was drowned in loud cries of 
“ Order ! ”) He would repeat that he had had his eye 
upon him for years, and this he would say, that a more 
well-conducted, a more well-behaved, a more sober, a 
more quiet man, with a more well-regulated mind he 
had never met with. A man with a larger family he 
had never known (cheers). The parish required a man 
who could be depended on (“ Hear ! ” from the Spruggins 
side, answered by ironical cheers from the Bung party)-. 
Such a man he now proposed No,” “ Yes ”). He 
would not allude to individuals (the ex-churchwarden 
continued, in the celebrated negative style adopted by 
great speakers). He would not advert to a gentleman 
who had once held a high rank in the service of his 
majesty ; he would not say, that that gentleman was no 
gentleman ; he would not assert, that that man was no 
man ; he would not say, thiat he was a turbulent parish- 
ioner ; he would not say, that he had grossly misbehaved 
himself, not only on this, but on all former occasions ; he 
would not say, that he was one of those discontented and 
treasonable spirits, who carried confusion and disorder 
wherever they went ; he w^ould not say, that he harbored 
in his heart envy, and hatred, and malice, and all un- 
charitableness. No ! He wished to have everything 


THE ELECTION FOR BEADLE. 


3a 


comfortable and pleasant, and therefore, he would say — 
nothing about him (cheers). 

The captain replied in a similar parliamentary style. 
He would not say, he was astonished at the speech theji 
had just heard ; he would not say, he was disgusted 
(cheers). He would not retort the epithets which had 
been hurled against him (renewed cheering) ; he would 
not allude to men once in office, but now happily out of 
it, who had mismanaged the workhouse, ground the pau- 
pers, diluted the beer, slack-baked the bread, boned the 
meat, heightened the work, and lowered the soup (tre- 
mendous cheers). He would not ask what such men 
deserved (a voice “ Nothing a-day, and find them- 
selves ! ”). He would not say, that one burst of general 
indignation should drive them from the parish they pol- 
luted with their presence (“ Give it him ! ”). He would 
not allude to the unfortunate man who had been proposed 
— he would not say, as the vestry’s tool, but as Beadle. 
He would not advert to that individual’s family ; he 
would not say, that nine children, twins, and a wife, 
were very bad examples for pauper imitation (loud 
cheers). He would not advert in detail to the qualifica- 
tions of Bung. The man stood before him, and he would 
not say in his presence, what he might be disposed to say 
of him if he were absent. (Here Mr. Bung telegraphed 
to a friend near him, under cover of his hat, by contract- 
ing his left eye, and applying his right thumb to the tip 
of his nose.) It had been objected to Bung that he had 
only five children (‘^ Hear, hear ! ” from the opposition). 
Well ; he had yet to learn that the legislature had affixed 
any precise amount of infantine qualification to the office 
of beadle ; but taking it for granted that an extensive 
family were a great requisite, he entreated them to look 


40 


SKETCHES BY BOZ. 


to facts, and compare data^ about which there could be 
no mistake. Bung was 35 years of age. Spruggins — 
of whom he wished to speak with all possible respect — 
was 50. Was it not more than possible — was it not 
very probable — that by the time Bung attained the 
latter age, he might see around him a family, even ex- 
ceeding in number and extent that to which Spruggins 
at present laid claim (deafening cheers and waving of 
handkerchiefs) ? The captain concluded, amidst loud 
applause, by calling upon the parishioners to sound the 
tocsin, rush to the poll, free themselves from dictation, or 
be slaves forever. 

On the following day the polling began, and we never 
have had such a bustle in our parish since we got up our 
famous anti-slavery petition, which was such an impor- 
tant one, that the House of Commons ordered it to be 
printed, on the motion of the member for the district. 
The captain engaged two hackney-coaches and a cab for 
Bung’s people — the cab for the drunken voters, and the 
two coaches for the old ladies, the greater portion of 
whom, owing to the captain’s impetuosity, were driven 
up to the poll and home again, before they recovered 
from their flurry sufflciently to know, with any degree 
of clearness, what they had been doing. The opposite 
party wholly neglected these precautions, and the conse- 
quence was, that a great i»hny ladies who were walking 
leisurely up to the church — for it was a very hot day — 
to vote for Spruggins, were artfully decoyed into the 
coaches, and voted for Bung. The captain’s arguments, 
too, had produced considerable effect : the attempted 
influence of the vestry produced a greater. A threat 
of exclusive dealing was clearly established against the 
vestry-clerk — a case of heartless and profligate atrocity. 


THE BROKER’S MAN. 


43 


It appeared that the delinquent had been in the habit of 
purchasing six penn’orth of muffins, weekly, from an old 
woman who rents a small house in the parish, and resides 
among the original settlers ; on her last weekly visit, a 
message was conveyed to her through the medium of the 
cook, couched in mysterious terms, but indicating with 
sufficient clearness, that the vestry-clerk’s appetite for 
muffins, in future, depended entirely on her vote on the 
beadleship. This was sufficient : the stream had been 
turning previously, and the impulse ;hus administered 
directed its final course. The Bung party ordered one 
shilling’s-worth of muffins weekly for the remainder of 
the old woman’s natural life ; the parishioners were loud 
in their exclamations ; and the fate of Spruggins was 
sealed. 

It was in vain that the twins were exhibited in dresses 
of the same pattern, and night-caps to match, at the church- 
door : the boy in Mrs. Spruggins’s right arm, and the girl 
in her left — even Mrs. Spruggins herself failed to be an 
object of sympathy any longer. The majority attained 
by Bung on the gross poll was four hundred and twenty- 
eight, a»d the cause of the parishioners triumphed. 


CHAPTER V. 

THE broker’s man. 

The excitement of the late election has subsided, and 
our parish being once again restored to a state of com- 
parative tranquillity, we are enabled to devote our atten- 


42 


SKETCHES BY BOZ. 


tion to those parishioners who take little share in our 
party contests or in the turmoil and bustle of public life. 
And w^e feel sincere pleasure in acknowledging here, that 
in collecting materials for this task we have been greatly 
assisted by Mr. Bung himself, who has imposed on us a 
debt of obligation which we fear we can never repay. 
The life of this gentleman has been one of a very 
checkered description : he has undergone transitions — 
not from grave to gay, for he never was grave — not 
from lively to severe, for severity forms no part of his 
disposition ; his fluctuations have been between poverty 
in the extreme, and poverty modified, or, to use his own 
emphatic language, “between nothing to eat and just 
half enough.” He is not, as he forcibly remarks, “ One 
of those fortunate men who, if they were to dive under 
one side of a barge stark-naked, would come up on the 
other with a new suit of clothes on, and a ticket for soup 
in the waistcoat-pocket : ” neither is he one of those, 
whose spirit has been broken beyond redemption by mis- 
fortune and want. He is just one of the careless, good- 
for-nothing, happy fellows, who float, cork -like on the 
surface, for the world to play at hockey with : l|nocked 
here, and there, and everywhere : now to the right, then 
to the left, again up in the air, and anon to the bottom, 
but always reappearing and bounding with the stream 
buoyantly and merrily along. Some few months before 
he was prevailed upon to stand a contested election for 
the office of beadle, necessity attached him to the service 
of a broker ; and on the opportunities he here acquired 
of ascertaining the condition of most of the poorer inhab- 
itants of the parish, his patron, the captain, first grounded 
his claims to public support. Chance threw the man in 
our way a short time since. We were, in the first in- 


THE BROKER’S MAN. 


43 


stance, attracted by his prepossessing impudence at the 
election ; we were not surprised, on further acquaint- 
ance, to find him a shrewd knowing fellow, with no 
inconsiderable power of observation ; and, after con- 
versing with him a little, were somewhat struck (as we 
dai'e say our readers have frequently been in other cases) 
with the y)Ower some men seem to have, not only of syni- 
[)athizing with, but to all appearance of understanding 
feelings to \A^iich they themselves are entire strangers. 
We had been expressing to the new functionary our sur- 
prise that he should ever have served in the capacity to 
which we have just adverted, when we gradually led him 
into one or two professional anecdotes. As we are in- 
duced to think, on reflection, that they will tell better in 
nearly his own words, than with any attempted embel- 
lishments of ours, we will at once entitle them 

MR. BUNG’S NARRATIVE. 

“ It’s very true, as you say, sir,” Mr. Bung commenced, 
“ that a broker’s man’s is not a life to be envied ; and in 
course you know as well as I do, though you don’t say it, 
that people hate and scout ’em because they’re the minis- 
ters of wretchedness, like, to poor people. But what 
could I do, sir ? The thing was no worse because I did 
it, instead of somebody else ; and if putting me in pos- 
session of a house would put me in possession of three- 
and-sixpence a day, and levying a distress on another 
man’s goods would relieve my distress and that »f my 
family, it can’t be expected but what I’d take the job and 
go through with it. I never liked it, God knows; I 
always looked out for something else, and the moment 
I got other work to do, I left it. If there is anything 
wrong in being the agent in such matters — not the 


44 


SKETCHES BY BOZ. 


principal, mind you — I’m sure the business, to a begin- 
ner like I was, at all events, carries its own punishment 
along with it. I wished again and again that the people 
would only blow me up, or pitch into me — that I 
wouldn’t have minded, it’s all in my way ; but it’s the 
being shut up by yourself in one room for five days, 
without so much as an old newspaper to look at, or any- 
thing to see out o’ the winder but the roofs and chimneys 
at the back of the house, or anything to listen to, but the 
ticking, perhaps, of an old Dutch clock, tl?e sobbing of 
the missis, now and then, the low talking of friends in 
the next room, w^ho speak in w'hispers, lest ‘ the man ’ 
should overhear them, or perhaps the occasional opening 
of the door, as a child peeps in to look at you, and then 
runs half-frightened away — It’s all this, that makes you 
feel sneaking somehow, and ashamed of yourself ; and 
then, if it’s winter time, they just give you fire enough 
to make you think you’d like more, and bring in your 
grub as if they wished it ’ud choke you — as I dare say 
they do, for the matter of that, most heartily. If they’re 
very civil, they make you up a bed in the room at night, 
and if they don’t, your master sends one in for you ; but 
there you are, without being washed or shaved all the 
time, shunned by everybody, and spoken to by no one, 
unless some one comes in at dinner-time, and asks you 
whether you want any more, in a tone as much as to 
say ^ I hope you don't,’ or, in the evening, to inquire 
whetl^r you wouldn’t rather have a candle, after you’ve 
bejen sittino^ in the dark half the night. When I was 
left in this way, I used to sit, think, think, thinking, till 
I felt as lonesome as a kitten in a wash-house copper 
with the lid on ; but I believe the old brokers’ men who 
are regularly trained to it, never think at all. I have 


THE BROKER’S MAN. 


45 


heard some on ’em say, indeed, that they don’t knoTfV 
how ! 

“ I put in a good many distresses in my time (con- 
tinued Mr. Bung), and in course I wasn’t long in finding, 
that some people are not as much to be pitied as others 
are, and that people with good incomes who get into diffi- 
culties, which they keep patching up day after day, and 
week after week, get so used to these sort of things in 
time, that at last they come scarcely to feel them at all. 
I remember the very first place I was put in possession 
of, was a gentleman’s house in this parish here, that 
everybody would suppose couldn’t help having money if 
he tried. I went with old Fixem, my old master, ’bout 
half arter eight in the morning ; rang the area-bell ; 
servant in livery opened the door : ^ Governor at home ? ’ 
— ‘ Yes, he is,’ says the man ; ‘ but he’s breakfasting just 
now.’ ‘ Never mind,’ says Fixem, ‘just you tell him 
there’s a gentleman here, as wants to speak to him par- 
tickler.’ So the servant he opens his eyes, and stares 
about him always — looking for the gentleman as it 
struck me, for I don’t think anybody but a man as was 
stone-blind would mistake Fixem for one ; and as for 
me, I was as seedy as a cheap cowcumber. Plows’ever, 
he turns round, and goes to the breakfast-parlor, which 
was a little snug sort of room at the end of the passage, 
and Fixem (as' we always did in that profession), without 
waiting to be announced, walks in arter him, and before 
the servant could get out — ‘ Please, sir, here’s a man as 
wants to speak to you,’ looks in at the door as familiar 
and pleasant as may be. ‘ Who the devil are you, and 
how dare you walk into a gentleman’s house without 
leave ? ’ says the master, as fierce as a bull in fits. ‘ My 
name,’ says Fixem, winking to the master to send the 


46 


SKETCHES BY BOZ. 


servant away, and putting the warrant into his hands 
folded up like a note, ^ My name’s Smith,’ says he, ‘ and 
I called from Johnson’s about that business of Thomp- 
son’s ’ — ‘ Oh,’ says the other, quite down on him directly, 
"How is Thompson?’ says he; ‘Pray sit down, Mr. 
Smith : John, leave the room.’ Out went the servant ; 
and the gentleman and Fixem looked at one another till 
they couldn’t look any longer, and then they varied the 
amusements by looking at me, who had been standing on 
the mat all this time. ‘ Plundred and fifty pounds, I see,’ 
said the gentleman at last. ‘ Hundred and fifty pound,’ 
said Fixem, ‘ besides cost of levy, sheriff’s poundage, 
and all other incidental expenses.’ — ‘ Um,’ says the 
gentleman, ‘ I sha’n’t be able to settle this before to-mor- 
row afternoon.’ — ‘Very sorry; but I shall be obliged to 
leave my man here till then,’ replies Fixem, pretending 
to look very miserable ovei* it. ‘ That’s very unfort’nate,’ 
says the gentleman, ‘ for I have got a large party here 
to-night, and I’m ruined if those fellows of mine get an 
inkling of the matter — just step here, Mr. Smith,’ says 
he, after a short pause. So Fixem walks with him up 
to the window, and after a good deal of whispering, and 
a little chinking of suverins, and looking at me, he comes 
back and says, ‘ Bung, you’re a handy fellow, and very 
honest I know. This gentleman wants an assistant to 
clean the plate and wait at table to-day, and if you’re 
not particularly engaged,’ says old Fixem, grinning like 
mad, and shoving a couple of suverins into ^jiy hand-, 
‘ he’ll be very glad to avail himself of your services.’ 
'S^ell, I laughed : and the gentleman laughed, and we all 
laughed ; and 1 went home and cleaned myself, leaving 
Fixem there, and when I went back, Fixem went away, 
and I polished up the plate, and waited at table, and 


THE BROKER’S MAN. 


47 


gammoned the servants, and nobody had the least idea I 
was in possession, though it very nearly came out after 
all ; for one of the last gentlemen who remained, came 
down-stairs into the hall v/here I was sitting pretty late 
at night, and putting half-a-crown into my hand, says, 
‘ Here my man,’ says he, ‘ run and get me a coach, will 
you ? ’ I thought it was a do, to get me out of the house, 
and was just going to say so, sulkily enough, when the 
gentleman (who was up to everything) came running 
down-stairs, as if he was in great anxiety. ‘ Bung, 
says he, pretending to be in a consuming passion. ^ Sir,’ 
says I. ‘ Why the devil a’n’t you looking after that 
plate?’ — H was just going to send him for a coach for 
me,’ says the other gentleman. ‘And I was just agoing 
to say,’ says I — ‘ Anybody else, my dear fellow,’ inter- 
rupts the master of the house, pushing me down the pas- 
sage to get out of the way — ‘ anybody else ; but I have 
put this man in possession of all the plate and valuables, 
and I cannot allow him on any consideration whatever, 
to leave the house. Bung, you scoundrel, go and count 
those forks in the breakfast-parlor instantly.’ You may 
be sure I went laughing pretty hearty when I found it 
was all right. The money was paid next day, with the 
addition of something else for myself, and that was the 
best job that I (and I suspect old Fixem too) ever got 
in that line. 

“ But this is the bright side of the picture, sir, after 
all/’ resumed jMr. Bung, laying aside the knowing look, 
and flash air, with which he had repeated the previous 
anecdote — “ and I’m sorry to say, it’s the side one sees 
very, very, seldom, in comparison with the dark one. 
The civility which money will purchase, is rarely extend- 
ed to those who have none ; and there’s a consolation 


48 


SKETCHES BY BOZ. 


even nn being able to patch up one difficulty, to make 
way for another, to which very poor people are strangers. 
I was once put into a house down George’s Yard — that 
little dirty court at the back of the gas-works ; and I 
never shall forget the misery of them people, dear me ! 
It was a distress for half a year’s rent — two pound ten I 
think. There was only two rooms in the house, and as 
there was no passage, the lodgers up-stairs always went 
through the room of the people of the house, as they 
passed in and out ; and every time they did so — which, 
oh the average, was about four times every quarter of an 
hour — they blowed up quite frightful : for their things 
had been seized too, and included in the inventory. 
There was a little piece of inclosed dust in front of the 
house, with a cinder-path leading up to the door, and an 
open rain-water butt on one side. A dirty striped cur- 
tain, on a very slack string, hung in the window, and a 
little triangular bit of broken looking-glass rested on the 
sill inside. I suppose it was meant for the people’s use, 
but their appearance was so wretched, and so miserable, 
that I’m certain they never could have plucked up cour- 
age to look themselves in the face a second time, if they 
survived the fright of doing so once. There was two or 
three chairs, that might have been worth, in their best 
days, from eightpence to a shilling a-piece ; a small 
d(>al table, an old corner cupboard with nothing in it, and 
one of those bedsteads which turn up half way, and leave 
the bottom legs sticking out for you to knock your head 
against, or hang your hat upon ; no bed, no bedding. 
There was an old sack, by way of rug, before the fire- 
place, and four or five children were grovelling about, 
among the sand on the floor. The execution was only 
put in to get ’em out of the house, for there was nothing 


THE BROKER’S MAN. 


49 


to take to pay the expenses ; and here I stopped for 
three days, though that was a mere form too : for, in 
course, I knew, and we all knew, they could never pay 
the money. In one of the chairs, by the side of the 
place where the fire ought to have been, was an old 
’ooman — the ugliest and dirtiest I ever see — who sat 
rocking herself backwards and forwards, backwards and 
forwards, without once stopping, except for an instant 
now and then, to clasp together the withered hands 
which, with these exceptions, she kept constantly rub- 
bing upon her knees, just raising and depressing her 
fingers convulsively, in time to the rocking of the chair. 

On the other side sat the mother with an infant in her 
arms, which cried till it cried itself to sleep, and when 
it ’woke, cried till it cried itself off again. The old 
’ooman’s voice I never heard : she seemed completely * 
stupefied ; and as to the mother’s, it would have been bet- 
ter if she had been so too, for misery had changed her to 
a devil. If you had heard how she cursed the little 
naked children as was rolling on the fioor, and seen how 
savagely she struck the infant when it cried with hunger, 
you’d have shuddered as much as I did. There they re- 
mained all the time : the children ate a morsel of bread 
once or twice, and I gave ’em best part of the dinners 
my missis brought me, but the woman ate nothing ; they 
-never even laid on the bedstead, nor was the room swept 
or cleaned all the time. The neighbors were all too poor 
themselves to take any notice of ’em, but from what I 
could make out from the abuse of the woman up-stairs, 
it seemed the husband had been transported a few weeks 
before. When the time was up, the landlord and old 
Fixem too, got rather frightened about the family, and 
so they made a stir about it, and had ’em taken to the 

VOL. I. 4 


50 


SKETCHES BY BOZ. 


workhouse. They sent the sick couch for the old ’ooman, 
and Simmons took the children away at night. The 
’ooman went into the infirmary, and very soon died. The 
children are all in the house to this day, and very com- 
fortable they are in comparison. As to the mother, there 
was no taming her at all. She had been a quiet, hard- 
working woman, I believe, but her misery had actually 
drove her wild ; so after she had been sent to the house 
of correction half-a-dozen times, for throwing inkstands 
at the overseers, blaspheming the churchwardens, and 
smashing everybody as come near her, she burst a blood- 
vessel one mornin’, and died too ; and a happy release it 
was, both for herself and the old paupers, male and female, 
which she used to tip over in all directions, as if they 
were so many skittles, and she the ball. 

Now this was bad enough,” resumed Mr. Bung, tak- 
ing a half step towards the door, as if to intimate that he 
had nearly concluded. “ This was bad enough, but 
there was a sort of quiet misery — if you understand 
what I mean by that, sir — about a lady at one house I 
was put into, as touched me a good deal more. It 
doesn’t matter where it was exactly : indeed, I’d rather 
not say, but it was the same sort o’ job. I went with 
Fixem in the usual way — there was a year’s rent in 
arrear; a very small servant-girl opened the door, and 
three or four fine-looking little children was in the front 
parlor we were shown into, which was very clean, but 
very scantily furnished, much like the children them- 
selves. ‘ Bung,’ says Fixem to me, in a low voice, when 
we w^ere left alone for a minute, ‘ I know something 
about this here family, and my opinion is, it’s no go.’ 
‘ Do you think they can’t settle?’ says I, quite anxiously ; 
for I liked the looks of them children. Fixem shook his 


THE BROKER’S MAN. 


51 


head, and was just about to reply, when the door opened, 
and in came a lady, as white as ever I see any one in my 
days, except about the eyes, which were red with crying. 
She walked in, as firm as I could have done ; shut the 
door carefully after her, and sat herself down with a face 
as composed as if it was made of stone. ‘ What is the 
matter, gentlemen ? ’ says she, in a surprisin’ steady 
voice. ‘Is this an execution ? ’ — ‘It is, mum,’ says 
Fixem. The lady looked at him as steady as ever : she 
didn’t seem to have understood him. ‘ It is, mum,’ says 
Fixem again ; ‘ this is my warrant of distress, mum,’ 
says he, handing it over as polite as if it was a news- 
paper which had been bespoke arter the next gentleman. 

“ The lady’s lip trembled as she took the printed 
paper. She cast her eye over it, and old Fixem began 
to explain the form, but I saw she wasn’t reading it, 
plain enough, poor thing. ‘ Oh, my God ! ’ says she, sud- 
denly a-bursting out crying, letting the warrant fall, and 
hiding her face in her hands. ‘ Oh, my God ! what will 
become of us ! ’ The noise she made, brought in a 
young lady of about nineteen or twenty, who, I suppose, 
had been a-listening at the door, and who had got a little 
boy in her arms : she sat him down in the lady’s lap, 
without speaking, and she hugged the poor little fellow 
to her bosom, and cried over him, ’till even old Fixem 
put on his blue spectacles to hide the two tears that was 
a-trickliiig down, one on each side of his dirty face. 
‘Now, dear ma,’ says the young lady, ‘you kno^Y how 
much you have borne. For all our sakes — for pa’s 
sake,’ says • she, ‘ don’t give way to this ! ’ — ‘No, nO, I 
won’t ! ’ says the lady, gathering herself up hastily, and 
drying her eyes ; ‘ I am very foolish, but I’m better now 
— much better.’ And then she roused herself up, went 


52 


SKETCHES BY BOZ. 


with us into every room while we took the inventory, 
opened all the drawers of her own accord, sorted the 
children’s little clothes to make the work easier ; and, 
except doing everything in a strange sort of hurry, 
seemed as calm and composed as if nothing . had hap- 
pened. When we came down- stairs again, she hesitated 
a minute or two, and at last says, ‘ Gentlemen,’ says she, 
‘ I am afraid I have done wrong, and perhaps it may 
bring you into trouble. I secreted just now,’ she says, 
‘ the only trinket I have left in the \vorld — here it is.’ 
So she lays down on the table, a little miniature mounted 
in gold. ‘ It’s a miniature,’ she says, ‘ of my poor dear 
father ! I little thought once, that I should ever thank 
God for depriving me of the original ; but I do, and have 
done for years back, most fervently. Take it away, sir,’ 
she says, ‘ it’s a face that never turned from me in sick- 
ness or distress, and I can hardly bear to turn from it 
now, when, God knows, I suffer both in no ordinary de- 
gree.’ I couldn’t say nothing, but I raised my head from 
the inventory which I was filling up, and looked at 
Fixem ; the old fellow nodded to me significantly, so I 
ran my pen through the ^Mini ’ I had just written, and 
left the miniature on the table. 

Well, sir, to make short of a long story, I was left in 
possession, and in possession I remained ; and though I 
was an ignorant man, and the master of the house a 
clever one, I saw what he never did, but what he would 
give worlds now (if he had ’em) to have seen in time. 
I saw, sir, that his wife was wasting away, beneath cares 
of which she never complained, and griefs she never told. 
I saw that she was dying before his eyes ; I knew that 
one exertion from him might have saved her, but he 
never made it. I don’t blame him; I don’t think he 


THE BROKER’S MAN. 


58 


could rouse himself. She had so long anticipated all his 
wishes, and acted for him, that he was a lost man when 
left to himself. I used to think when I caught sight of 
her, in the clothes she used to wear, which looked shabby 
even upon her, and would hare been scarcely decent on 
any one else, that if I was a gentleman it would wring 
my very heart to see the woman that was a smart and 
merry girl when I courted her, so altered through her 
love for me. Bitter cold and damp weather it was, yet, 
though her dress was thin, and her shoes none of the 
best, during the whole three days, from morning to night, 
she was out of doors running about to try and raise the 
money. The money was raised, and the execution was 
paid out. The whole family crowded into the room 
where I was, when the money arrived. ^ The father was 
quite happy as the inconvenience was removed — I dare 
say he didn’t know how ; the children looked merry and 
cheerful again ; the eldest girl was bustling about, mak- 
ing preparations for the first comfortable meal they had 
had since the distress was put in ; and the mother looked 
pleased to see them all so. But if ever I saw death in 
a woman’s face, I saw it in hers that night. 

“ I was right, sir,” continued Mr. Bung, hurriedly pass- 
ing his coat-sleeve over his face, the family grew more 
prosperous, and good fortune arrived. But it was too 
late. Those children are motherless now, and their 
father would give up all he has since gained — house, 
home, goods, money : all that he has, or ever can have, 
to restore the wife he has lost.” 


54 


SKETCHES BY BOZ. 


CHAPTER VI. 

THE ladies’ societies. 

Our Parish is very prolific in ladies’ charitable institu- 
tions. In winter, when wet feet are common and colds not 
scarce, we have the ladies’ soup distribution society, the 
ladies’ coal distribution society, and the ladies’ blanket 
distribution society ; in summer, when stone fruits flour- 
ish and stomach aches prevail, we have the ladies’ dis- 
pensary, and the ladies sick visitation committee ; and all 
the year round we have the ladies’ child’s examination 
society, the ladies’ bible and prayer-book circulation 
society, and the ladies’ childbed-linen monthly loan so- 
ciety. The two latter are decidedly the most important ; 
whether they are productive of more benefit than the 
rest, is not for us to say, but we can take upon ourselves 
to affirm, with the utmost solemnity, that they create a 
greater stir, and more bustle than all the others put to- 
gether. 

We should be disposed to affirm, on the first blush of 
the matter, that the bible and prayer-book society is not 
so popular as the childbed-linen society ; the bible and 
prayer-book society has, however, considerably increased 
in importance within the last year or two, having derived 
some adventitious aid from the factious opposition of the 
child’s examination society ; which factious opposition 
originated in manner following : — When the young 
curate was popular, and all the unmarried ladies in 
the parish fook a serious turn, the charity children all at 


THE LADIES’ SOCIETIES. 


55 


once became objects of peculiar and especial interest. 
The three Miss Browns (enthusiastic admirers of the 
curate) taught, and exercised, and examined and reex- 
amined the unfortunate children, until the boys grew 
pale, and the girls consumptive with study and fatigue. 
The three Miss Browns stood it out very well, because 
they relieved each other ; but the children, having no 
relief at all, exhibited decided symptoms of weariness 
and care. The unthinking part of the parishioners 
laughed at all this, but the more reflective portion of the 
inhabitants abstained from expressing any opinion on 
the subject until that of the curate had been clearly 
ascertained. 

The opportunity was not long wanting. The curate 
preached a charity sermon on behalf of the charity school, 
and in the charity sermon aforesaid, expatiated in glow- 
ing terms on the praiseworthy and indefatigable exertions 
of certain estimable individuals. Sobs were heard to 
issue from the three Miss Browns’ pew ; the pew-opener 
of the division was seen to hurry down the centre aisle 
to the vestry-door, and to return immediately, bearing a 
glass of water in her hand. A low moaning ensued ; 
two more pew-openers rushed to the spot, and the three 
Miss Browns, each supported by a pew-openef, Avere led 
' out of the church, and led in again after the lapse of five 
minutes with Avhite pocket-handkerchiefs to their eyes, as 
if they had been attending a funeral in the churchyard 
adjoining. If any doubt had for a moment existed, as to 
whom the allusion was intended to apply, it was at once 
removed. The Avish to enlighten the charity children 
became universal, and the three Miss Browns were 
unanimously besought to diAude the school into classes, 
and to assign each class to the superintendence of two 
young ladies. 


56 


SKETCHES BY BOZ. 


A little learning is a dangerous thing, but a little pat- 
ronage is more so ; the three Miss Browns appointed all 
the old maids, and carefully excluded the young ones. 
Maiden aunts triumphed, mammas were reduced to the 
lowest depth of despair, and there is no telling in what 
act of violence the general indignation against the three 
Miss Browns might have vented itself, had not a per- 
fectly providential occurrence changed the tide of public 
feeling. Mrs. Johnson Parker, the mother of seven ex- 
tremely fine girls — all unmarried — hastily reported to 
several other mammas of several other unmarried fami- 
lies, that five old men, six old women, and children innu- 
merable, in the free seats near her pew, were in the habit 
of coming to church every Sunday, without either bible 
or prayer-book. Was this to be borne in a civilized 
country ? Could such tilings be tolerated in a Christian 
land ? Never ! A ladies’ bible and prayer-book distri- 
bution society was instantly formed : president, Mrs. 
Johnson Parker ; treasurers, auditors, and secretary, the 
Misses Johnson Parker : subscriptions were entered into, 
books were bought, all the free-seat people provided 
therewith, and when the first lesson was given out, on 
the first Sunday succeeding these events, there was such 
a dropping of books, and rustling of leaves, that it was 
morally impossible to hear one word of the service for 
five minutes afterwards. 

The three Miss Browns, and their party, saw the ap- 
proaching danger, and endeavored to avert it by ridicule 
and sarcasm. Neither the old men nor the old women 
could read their books now they had got them, said the 
three Miss Browns. Never mind ; they could learn, 
replied Mrs. Johnson Parker. The children couldn’t 
read either, suggested the three Miss Browns. No mah 


THE LADIES’ SOCIETIES. 


57 


ter; they could be taught, retorted Mrs. Johnson Parker. 
A balance of parties took place. The Miss Browns 
publicly examined — popular feeling inclined to the 
child’s examination society. The Miss Johnson Parkers 
publicly distributed — a reaction took place in favor of 
the prayer-book distribution. A feather would have 
turned the scale, and a feather did turn it. A mission- 
ary returned from the West Indies ; he was to be pre- 
sented to the Dissenters’ Missionary Society on his mar- 
riage with a wealthy widow. Overtures were made to 
the Dissenters by the Johnson Parkers. Their object 
was the same, and why not have a joint meeting of the 
two societies ? The proposition was accepted. The 
meeting was duly heralded by public announcement, and 
the room was crowded to suffocation. The missionary 
appeared on the platform ; he was hailed with enthu- 
siasm. He repeated a dialogue he had heard between 
two negroes, behind a hedge, on the subject of distribu- 
tion societies ; the approbation was tumultuous. He 
gave an imitation of the two negroes in broken English ; 
the roof was rent with applause. From that period we 
date (with one trifling exception) a daily increase in the 
popularity of the distribution society, and an increase of 
popularity, which the feeble and impotent opposition of 
the examination party, has only tended to augment. 

Now, the great points about the childbed-linen monthly 
loan society are, that it is less dependent on the fluctua- 
tions of public opinion than either the distribution or the 
child’s examination ; and that, come what may, there is 
never any lack of objects on which to exercise its benev- 
olence. Our parish is a very populous one, and, if any- 
thing, contributes, we should be disposed to say, rather 
more than its due share to the aggregate amount of births 


58 


SKETCHES BY.130Z. 


in the metropolis and its environs. The consequence is, 
that the monthly loan society flourishes, and invests its 
members witli a most enviable amount of bustling patron- 
age. The society (whose only notion of dividing time, 
would appear to be its allotment into months) holds 
monthly tea-drinkings, at which the monthly report is 
l eceived, a secretary elected for the month ensuing, and 
such of the monthly boxes as may not happen to be out 
on loan for the month, carefully examined. 

We were never present at one of these meetings, from 
all of which it is scarcely necessary to say, gentlemen are 
carefully excluded ; but Mr. Bung had been called before 
the board once or twice, and we have his authority for 
stating, that its proceedings are conducted with great 
order and regularity : not more than four members being 
allowed to speak at one time on any pretence whatever. 
The regular committee is composed exclusively of mar- 
ried ladies,, but a vast number of young unmarried ladies 
of from eighteen to twenty -five years of age, respectively, 
are admitted as honorary members, partly because they 
are very useful in replenishing the boxes, and visiting 
the confined ; partly because it is highly desirable that 
they should be initiated, at an early period, into the more 
serious and matronly duties of after-life ; and partly 
because, prudent mammas have not unfrequently been 
known to turn this circumstance to wonderfully good 
account in matrimonial speculations. 

In addition to the loan of the monthly boxes (which 
are always painted blue, with the name of the society in 
large white letters on the lid), the society dispense occa- 
sional grants of beef -tea, and a composition of warm beer, 
spice, eggs, and sugar, commonly known by the name of 
‘‘ caudle,” to its patients. And here again the services 


THE LADIES’ SOCIETIES. 


59 


of the honorary members are called into requisition, and 
most cheerfully conceded. Deputations of twos or threes 
are sent out to visit the patients, and on these occasions 
there is such a tasting of caudle and beef-tea, such a stir- 
ring about of little messes in tiny saucepans on the hob, 
such a dressing and undressing of infants, such a tying, 
and folding, and pinning ; such a nursing and warming 
of little legs and feet before the fire, such a delightful 
confusion of talking and cooking, bustle, importance, and 
otficiousness, as never can be enjoyed in its full extent 
but on similar occasions. 

In rivalry of these two institutions, and as a last expir- 
ing effort to acquire parochial popularity, the child’s 
examination people determined, tlie other day, on having 
a grand public examination of the pupils ; and the large 
school-room of the national seminary was, by and with 
the consent of the parish authorities, devoted to the pur- 
pose. Invitation circulars were forwarded to all the 
principal parishioners, including, of course, the heads of 
the other two societies, for whose especial behoof and edi- 
fication the display was intended ; and a large audience 
was confidently anticipated on the occasion. The floor 
was carefully scrubbed the day before, under the imme- 
diate superintendence of the three Miss Browns ; forms 
were placed across the room for the accommodation of 
the visitors, specimens in writing were carefully selected, 
and as carefully patched and touched up, until they 
astonished the children who had written them, rather 
more than the company who read them ; sums in com- 
pound addition were rehearsed and re-rehearsed until all 
the children had the totals by heart; and the prepara- 
tions altogether were on the most laborious and most 
comprehensive scale. The morning arrived ; the chil- 


60 


SKETCHES BY BOZ. 


dren were yellow-soaped and flannelled, and towelled, 
till their faces shone again ; every pupil’s hair was care- 
fully combed into his or her eyes, as the case might be ; 
the girls were adorned with snow-white tippets, and caps 
bound round the head by a single purple ribbon : the 
necks of the elder boys were fixed into collars of start- 
ling dimensions. 

The doors were thrown open, and the Misses Brown 
and Co. were discovered in plain white muslin dresses, 
and caps of the same — the child’s examination uniform. 
The room filled : the greetings of the company were loud 
and cordial. The distributionists trembled, for their 
popularity was at stake. The eldest boy fell forward, 
and delivered a propitiatory address from behind his col- 
lar. It was from the pen of Mr. Henry Brown ; the 
applause was universal, and the Johnson Parkers were 
aghast. The examination proceeded with success, and 
terminated in triumph. The child’s examination society 
gained a momentary victory, and the Johnson Parkers 
retreated in despair. 

A secret council of the distributionists was held that 
night, with Mrs. Johnson Parker in the chair, to consider 
of the best means of recovering the ground they had lost 
in the favor of the parish. What could be done ? An- 
other meeting ! Alas ! who was to attend it ? The 
Missionary would not do twice ; and the slaves were 
emancipated. A bold step must be taken. The parish 
must be astonished in some way or other ; but no one 
was able to suggest what the step should be. At length, 
a very old lady was heard to mumble, in indistinct tones, 
‘‘ Exeter Hall.” A sudden light broke in upon the meet- 
ing. It was unanimously resolved, that a deputation of 
old ladies should wait upon a celebrated orator, implor 


OUR NEXT-DOOR NEIGHBOR. 


61 


ing his assistance, and the favor of a speech ; and that 
the deputation should also wait on two or three othei 
imbecile old women, not resident in the parish, and en- 
treat their attendance. The application was successful, 
the meeting was held : the orator (an Irishman) came. 
He talked of green isles — other shores — vast Atlantic 
— bosom of the deep — Christian charity ^ — blood and 
extermination — mercy in hearts — arms in hands — al- 
tars and homes — household gods. He wiped his eyes, 
he blew his nose, and he quoted Latin. The effect was 
tremendous — the Latin was a decided hit. Nobody 
knew exactly wdiat it was about, but everybody knew it 
must be affecting, because even the orator was overcome. 
The popularity of the distribution society among the 
ladies of our parish is unprecedented ; and the child’s 
examination is going fast to decay. 


CHAPTER VII. 

OUR NEXT-DOOR NEIGHBOR. 

We are very fond of speculating, as we walk through 
a street, on the character and pursuits of the people who 
inhabit it ; and nothing so materially assists us in these 
speculations as the appearance of the house-doors. The 
various expressions of the human countenance afford a 
beautiful and interesting study ; but there is something 
in the physiognomy of street-door knockers, almost as 
characteristic, and nearly as infallible. Whenever we 
visit a man for the first time., we contemplate the feat- 


62 


SKETCHES BY BOZ. 


ures of his knocker with the greatest curiosity, for we 
well know, that between the man and his knocker, tlmfe 
will inevitably be a greater or less degree of resemblance 
and sympathy. 

For instance, there is one description of knocker that 
used to be common enough, but which is fast passing 
away — a large round one, with the jolly face of a con- 
vivial lion smiling blandly at you, as you twist the sides 
of your hair into a cui-1, or pull up your shirt-collar 
while you are waiting for the door to be opened ; we 
never saw that knocker on the door of a churlish man — 
so far as our expermnce is concerned, it invariably be- 
spoke hospitality and another bottle. 

No man ever saw this knocker on the door of a small 
attorney or bill-broker ; they always patronize the other 
lion; a heavy ferocious-looking fellow, with a counte- 
nance expressive of savage stupidity — a sort of grand 
master among the knockers, and a great favorite with the 
selfish and brutal. 

Then there is a little pert Egyptian knocker, with a 
long thin face, a pinched-up nose, and a very sharp chin ; 
he is most in vogue with your government-office people, 
in light drabs and starched cravats : little spare priggish 
men, who are perfectly satisfied with their own opinions, 
end consider themselv'cs of paramount importance. 

We were greatly troubled a few 'years ago, by the inno- 
vation of a new kind of knocker, without any face at all, 
composed of a wreath, depending from a hand or small 
truncheon. A little trouble and attention, however, en- 
abled us to overcome tnis difficulty, and to reconcile the 
new system to our favorite theory. You will invariably 
find this knocker on the doors of cold and formal people, 
who always ask you why you don’t come, and never 
say do. 


OUR NEXT-DOOR NEIGHBOR. 


63 


Everybody knows the brass knocker is common to sub- 
urban villas, and extensive boarding-schools ; and having 
noticed this genus we have recapitulated all the most 
prominent and strongly-defined species. 

Some phrenologists affirm, that the agitation of a 
man’s brain by different passions, . produces correspond- 
ing developments in the form of his skull. Do not let us 
be understood as pushing our theory to the length of 
asserting, that any alteration in a man’s disposition would 
produce a visible effect on the feature of his knocker. 
Our position merely is, that in such a case, the magnet- 
ism which, must exist between a man and his knocker, 
would induce the man to remove, and seek some knocker 
more congenial to his altered feelings. If you ever find 
a man changing his habitation without any reasonable 
pretext, depend upon it, that, although he may not be 
aware of the fact himself, it is because he and his 
knocker are at variance. This is a nen^ theory, but we 
venture to launch if, nevertheless, as being quite as 
ingenious and infallible as many thousand of the learned 
speculations which are daily broached for public good 
and private fortune-making. 

Entertaining these feelings on the subject of knockers, 
it will be readily imagined with what consternation we 
viewed the entire removal of the knocker from the door 
of the next house to the one we lived in, some time ago, 
and the substitution of a bell. This was a calamity we had 
never anticipated. The bare idea of anybody being able 
to exist without a knocker, appeared so wild and vision- 
ary, that it had never for one instant entered our imagi- 
nation. 

We sauntered moodily from the spot, and bent our 
steps towards Eaton Square, then just building. What 


64 


SKETCHES BY BOZ. 


was our astonishment and indignation to find that bells 
were fast becoming the rule, and knockers the exception ! 
Our theory trembled beneath the shock. AVe hastened 
home ; and fancying we foresaw in the swift progress of 
events, its entire abolition, resolved from that day for- 
ward to vent our speculations on our next-door neighbors 
in person. The house adjoining ours on the left hand 
was uninhabited, and we had, therefore, plenty of leisure 
to observe our next-door neighbors on the other side. 

The house without the knocker was in the occupation 
of a city clerk, and there was a neatly written bill in the 
parlor window intimating that lodgings for a single gen- 
tleman were to be let wdthin. 

It was a neat, dull little house, on the shady side of 
the way, with new, narrow floor-cloth in the passage, and 
new, narrow stair-carpets up to the first floor. The paper 
was new, and the paint was new, and the furniture was 
new ; and all three, paper, paint, and furniture, bespoke 
the limited means of the tenant. There was a little red 
and black carpet in the drawing-room, with a border of 
flooring all the way round ; a few stained chairs and a 
Pembroke table. A pink shell was displayed on each of 
the little sideboards, which, with the addition of a tea- 
tray and caddy, a few more shells on the mantel-piece, 
and three peacock’s feathers tastefully arranged above 
them, completed the decorative furniture of the apart- 
ment. 

This was the room destined for the reception of the 
single gentleman during the day, and a little backroom 
on the same floor was assigned as his sleeping apartment 
by night. 

The bill had not been long in the window, when a 
stout good-humored looking gentleman, of about five-and- 


OUR NEXT-DOOR NEIGHBOR. 


65 


thirty, appeared as a candidate for the tenancy. Terms 
were soon arranged, for the bill was taken down imme- 
diately after his first visit. In a day or two the single 
gentleman came in, and shortly afterwards his real char 
acter came out. 

First of all, he displayed a most extraordinary par^ 
tiality for sitting up till three or four o’clock in the morn- 
ing, drinking whiskey and water, and smoking cigars ; 
then he invited friends home, who used to come at ten 
o’clock, and begin to get happy about the stnall hours, 
when they evinced their perfect contefitment by singing 
songs with half a dozen verses of two lines each, and a 
chorus of ten, which chorus used to be shouted forth by 
the whole strength of the company, in the most enthusi- 
astic and vociferous manner, to the great annoyance of the 
neighbors, and the special discomfort of another single 
gentleman overhead. 

Now, this was bad enough, occurring as it did three 
times a week on the average, but this was ^lot all ; for 
when the company did go away, instead of walking 
quietly down the street, as anybody else’s company would 
have done, they amused themselves by making alarming 
and frightful noises, and counterfeiting the shrieks of 
females in distress ; and one night, a red-faced gentle- 
man in a white hat knocked in the most urgent manner 
at the door of the powdered-headed old gentleman at 
No. 3, and when the powdered-headed old gentleman, 
who thought one of his married daughters must have 
been taken ill prematurely, had groped down-stairs, and 
after a great deal of unbolting and key-turning, opened 
the street-door, the red-faced man in the white hat said 
he hoped he’d excuse his giving him so much trouble, 
but he’d feel obliged if he’d favor him with a glass of 
5 


VOL. I. 


66 


SKETCHES BY BOZ. 


cold spring water, and the loan of a shilling for a cab to 
take him home, on which the old gentleman slammed the 
door and went up-stairs, and threw the contents of his 
water jug out of window — very straight, only it went 
over the wrong man ; and the whole street was involved 
in confusion. 

A joke’s a joke; and even practical jests are very 
capital in their way, if you can only get the other party 
to see the fun of them ; but the population of our street 
were so dull of apprehension, as to be quite lost to a 
sense of the drollery of this proceeding ; and the conse- 
quence was, that our next-door neighbor was obliged to 
tell the single gentleman, that unless he gave up enter- 
taining his friends at home, he really must be compelled 
to part with him. The single gentleman received the 
remonstrance with great good-humor, and promised from 
that time forward, to spend his evenings at a coffee-house 
— a determination which afforded general and unmixed 
satisfaction. 

The next night passed off very well, everybody being 
delighted with the change ; but on the next, the noises 
were renewed with greater spirit than ever. The single 
gentleman’s friends being unable to see him in his own 
house every alternate night, had come to the determina- 
tion of seeing him home every night ; and what with the 
discordant greetings of the friends at parting, and the 
noise created by the single gentleman in his passage up- 
stairs, and his subsequent struggles to get his boots off*, 
the evil was not to be borne. So, our next-door neigh- 
bor gave the single gentleman, who was a very good 
lodger in other respects, notice to quit ; and the single 
gentleman went away, and entertained his friends in 
other lodgings. 


OUR NEXT-DOOR NEIGHBOR. 


67 


The next applicant for the vacant first floor, was of a 
very different character from the troublesome single gen- 
tleman who had just quitted it. He was a tall, thin, 
yotmg gentleman, with a profusion of brown hair, reddish 
whiskers, and very slightly developed moustaches. He 
wore a braided surtout, with frogs behind, light gray 
trousers, and wash-leather gloves, and had altogether 
rather a military appearance. So unlike the roystering 
single gentleman ! Such insinuating manners, and such 
a delightful address ! So seriously disposed, too ! When 
he first came to look at the lodgings, he inquired most 
particularly whether he was sure to be able to get a seat in 
the parish church ; and when he had agreed to take them, 
he requested to have a list of the different local charities, 
as he intended to subscribe his mite to the most deserv- 
ing among them. Our next-door neighbor was now per- 
fectly happy. He had got a lodger at last, of just his 
own way of thinking — a serious, well-disposed man, 
who abhorred gayety, and loved retirement. He took 
down the bill with a light heart, and pictured in imagi 
nation a long series of quiet Sundays, on which he and 
his lodger would exchange mutual civilities and Sunday 
papers. 

The serious man arrived, and his luggage was to arrive 
from the country next morning. He borrowed a clean 
shirt, and a prayer-book, from our next-door neighbor, 
and retired to rest at an early hour, requesting that he 
might be called punctually at ten o’clock next morning 
— not before, as he was much fatigued. 

He was called, and did not answer : he w^as called 
again, but there was no reply. Our next-door neighbor 
became alarmed, and burst the door open. The serious 
man had left the house mysteriously ; carrying with him 


68 


SKETCHES BY BOZ. 


the shirt, the prayer-book, a teaspoon, and the bed- 
clothes. 

Whether this occurrence, coupled with the irregulari- 
ties of his former lodger, gave our next-door neighbor* an 
aversion to single gentlemen, we know not ; we only know 
that the next bill which made its appearance in the par- 
lor-window intimated generally, that there were furnished 
apartments to let on the first floor. The bill was soon 
removed. The new lodgers at first attracted our curi- 
osity, and afterwards excited our interest. 

They were a young lad of eighteen or nineteen, and 
his mother, a lady of about fifty, or it might be less. 
The mother wore a widow’s weeds, and the boy was also 
clothed in deep mourning. They were poor — very 
poor ; for their only means of support arose from the 
pittance the boy earned, by copying writings, and trans- 
lating for booksellers. 

They had removed from some country place and set- 
tled in London ; partly because it afforded better chances 
of employment for the boy, and partly, perhaps, with the 
natural desire to leave a place where they had been in 
better circumstances, and where their poverty was 
known. They were proud under tlieir reverses, and 
above revealing their wants and privations to strangers. 
How bitter those privations were, and how hard the boy 
worked to remove them, no one ever knew but them- 
selves. Night after night, two, three, four hours after 
midnight, could we hear the occasional raking up of the 
scanty fire, or the hollow and half-stifled cough, which 
indicated his being still at work ; and day after day, 
could we see more plainly that nature had set that un- 
earthly light in his plaintive face, which is the beacon of 
her worst disease. 


OUR NEXT-DOOR NEIGHBOR. 


69 


Actuated, we hope, by a higher feeling than mere 
curiosity, we contrived to establish, first an acquaintance, 
and then a close intimacy, with the poor strangers. Our 
worst fears were realized ; the boy was sinking fast. 
Through a pai’t of the winter, and the whole of the fol- 
lowing spring and summer, his labors were unceasingly 
prolonged : and the mother attempted to procure needle- 
work embroidery — anything for bread. 

A few shillings now and then, were all she could earn. 
The boy worked steadily on ; dying by minutes, but never 
once giving utterance to complaint or murmur. 

One beautiful autumn evening we went to pay our 
customary visit to the invalid. His little remaining 
strength had been decreasing rapidly for two or three 
days preceding, and he was lying on the sofa at the open 
window, gazing at the setting sun. His mother had been 
reading tf5e Bible to him, for she closed the book as we 
entered, and advanced to meet us. 

“ I was telling William,” she said, “ that we must 
manage to take him into the country somewhere, so that 
he may get quite well. He is not ill, you know, but he 
is not very strong, and has exerted himself too much 
lately.” Poor thing ! The tears that streamed through 
her fingers, as she turned aside, as if to adjust her close 
widow’s cap, too plainly showed how fruitless was the 
attempt to deceive herself. 

We sat down by the head of the sofa,^but said nothing, 
for we saw the breath of life was passing gently but 
rapidly from the young form before us. At every respi- 
ration, his heart beat more slowly. 

The boy placed one hand in ours, grasped his mother’s 
arm with the other, drew her hastily towards him, and 
fervently kissed her cheek. There was a pause. He 


70 


•SKETCHES BY BOZ. 


sunk back upon his pillow, and looked long and earnestly 
in his mother’s face. 

“ William, William ! ” murmured the mother after a 
long interval, “ don’t look at me so — speak to me, 
dear ! ” . 

The boy smiled languidly, but an instant afterwards 
his features resolved into the same cold, solemn gaze. 

“ William, dear William ! rouse yourself, dear ; don’t 
look at me so, love — pray don’t ! Oh, my God ! what 
shall I do ! ” cried the widow, clasping her hands in 
agony — “ my dear boy ! he is dying ! ” 

The boy raised himself by a violent effort, and folded 
his hands together — “ Mother ! dear, dear mother, bury 
me in the open fields — anywhere but in these dreadful 
streets. I should like to be where you can see my grave, 
but not in these close crowded streets ; they have killed 
me ; kiss me again, mother ; put your arm i^und my 
neck — ” 

He fell back, and a strange expression stole upon his 
featurtis ; not of pain or suffering, but an indescribable 
fixing of every line and muscle. 

The boy was dead. 


thp: streets — morning. 


71 


SCENES. 

— « — 

CHAPTER I. 

THE STREETS — MORNING. 

The appearance presented bj the streets of London 
an hour before sunrise, on a summer’s morning, is most 
striking even to the few Avhose unfortunate pursuits of 
pleasure, or scarcely less unfortunate pursuits of busi- 
ness, cause them to be well acquainted with the scene. 
There is an air of cold, solitary desolation about the 
noiseless streets which we are accustomed to see thronged 
at other times by a busy, eager crowd, and over the 
quiet, closely-shut buildings, which throughout the day 
are swarming with life and bustle, that is very im- 
pressive. 

The last drunken man, who shall find his way home 
before sunlight, has just staggered heavily along, roaring 
out the burden of the drinking-song of the previous 
night : the last houseless vagrant whom penury and 
})olice have left in the streets, has coiled up his chilly 
limbs in some paved corner, to dream of food and 
warmth. The drunken, the dissipated, and the wretched 
have disappeared ; the more sober and orderly part of 
the population have not yet awakened to the labors of 
the day, and the stillness of death is over the streets ; its 
very hue seems to be imparted to them, cold and lifeless 


72 


SKETCHED BY BOZ. 


as they look in the gray, sombre light of daybreak. The 
coach-stands in the larger thoroughfares are deserted : 
the night-houses are closed ; and the chosen promenades 
of profligate misery are empty. 

An occasional policeman may alone be seen at the 
street-corners, listlessly gazing on the deserted prospect 
before him ; and now and then a rakish-looking cat runs 
stealthily across the road and descends his own area with 
as much caution and slyness — bounding first on the 
water-butt, then on the dust-hole, and then alighting on 
the flag-stones — as if he were conscious that his char- 
acter depended on his gallantry of the preceding night 
escaping public observation. A partially opened bed- 
room-window here and there, bespeaks the heat of the 
weather, and the uneasy slumbers of its occupant ; and 
the dim scanty flicker of the rush-light, through the win- 
dow-blind, denotes the chamber of watching or sickness. 
With these few exceptions, the streets present no signs 
of life, nor the houses of habitation. 

An hour wears away ; the spires of the churches and 
roofs of the principal buildings are faintly tinged with the 
light of the rising sun ; and the streets, by almost iinper- 
ceptible degrees, begin to resume their bustle and anima- 
tion. Market-carts roll slowly along : the sleepy wagoner 
impatiently urging on his tired horses, or vainly endeav- 
oring to awaken the boy, who, luxuriously stretched on 
the top of the fruit-baskets, forgets, in happy oblivion, 
his long-cherished curiosity to behold the wonders of 
London. 

Rough, sleepy-looking animals of strange appearance, 
something between ostlers and hackney-coachmen, begin 
to take down the shutters of early public-houses ; and 
little deal tables, with the ordinary preparations for a 


THE STREETS — MORNING. 


73 


street breakfast, make their appearance at the customary 
stations. Numbers of men and women (principally the 
latter), carrying upon their heads heavy baskets of fruit, 
toil down the park side of Piccadilly, on their way to 
Covent Garden, and, following each other in rapid suc- 
cession, form a long straggling line from thence to the 
turn of the road at Knightsbridge. 

Here arvi there, a bricklayer’s laborer, with the day’s 
dinner tied up in a handkerchief, walks briskly to his 
work, and occasionally a little knot of three or four 
schoolboys on a stolen bathing expedition rattle merrily 
over the pavement, their boisterous mirth contrasting 
forcibly with the demeanor of the little sweep, who, hav- 
ing knocked and rung till his arm aches, and being inter- 
dicted by a merciful legislature from endangering his 
lungs by calling out, sits patiently down on the door-step 
until the housemaid may happen to awake. 

Covent Garden market, and the avenues leading to it 
are thronged with carts of all sorts, sizes, and descrip- 
tions, from the heavy lumbering wagon, with its four 
stout horses, to the jingling costermonger’s cart with its 
consumptive donkey. The pavement is already strewed 
with decayed cabbage-leaves, broken haybands, and all 
the indescribable litter of a vegetable market ; men are 
shouting, carts backing, horses neighing, boys fighting, 
basket-women talking, pie-men expatiating on the excel- 
lence of their pastry, and donkeys braying. These and 
a hundred other sounds form a compound discordant 
enough to a Londoner’s ears, and remarkably disagree- 
able to those of country gentlemen who are sleeping at 
the Hummurhs for the first time. 

Another hour passes away, and the day begins in good 
earnest. The servant of all work, who, under the plea 


74 


SKETCHES BY BOZ. 


of sleeping very soundly, has utterly disregarded “ Mis^ 
sis’s ” ringing for half an hour previously, is warned by 
Master (whom Missis has sent up in his drapery to the 
landing-place for that purpose) that it’s half past six, 
whereupon she awakes all of a sudden, with well-feigned 
astonishment, and goes down-stairs very sidkily, wishing, 
while she stidkes a light, that the principle of spontane- 
ous combustion would extend itself to coals a^d kitchen 
range. When the fire is lighted,' she opens the street 
door to take in the milk, when, by- the most singular 
coincidence in the world, she discovers that the servant 
next door has just taken in her milk too, and that Mr. 
Todd’s young man over the way, is, by an equally extra- 
ordinary chance, taking down his master’s shutters. The 
inevitable consequence is, that she just steps, milk-jug in 
hand, as far as next door, just to say “ good morning,” to 
Betsy Clark, and that Mr. Todd’s young man jnst steps 
over the way to say “ good morning ” to both of ’em ; 
and as the aforesaid Mr. Todd’s young man is almost as 
good-looking and fascinating as the baker himself, the 
conversation quickly becomes very interesting, and prob- 
ably would become more so, if Betsy Clark’s Missis, who 
always will be a followin’ her about, didn’t give an angry 
tap at her bedroom window, on which Mr. Todd’s young 
man tries to whistle coolly, as he goes back to his shop 
much faster than he came from it ; and the two girls run 
back to their respective places, and shut their street- 
doors with surprising softness, each of them poking their 
heads out of the front parlor- wan do w, a minute after- 
wards, however, ostensibly with the view of looking at 
the mail which just then passes by, but really for the pur- 
pose of catching another glimpse of Mr. Todd’s young 
man, who being fond of mails, but more of females, takes 


THE STKEE rS — MUENING. 


75 


a short look at the mails, and a long look at the girls, 
much to the satisfaction of all parties concerned. 

The mail itself goes on to the coach-office in due 
course, and the passengers who are going out by the 
early coach, stare with astonishment at the passengers 
who are coming in by the early coach, who look blue 
and dismal, and are evidently under the influence of that 
odd feeling produced by travelling, which makes the events 
of yesterday morning seem as if they had happened at 
least six months ago, and induces people to wonder with 
considerable gravity whether the friends and relations they 
took leave of a fortnight before, have altered much since 
they left them. The coach-office is all alive, and the 
coaches which are just going out, are surrounded by the 
usual crowd of Jews and nondescripts, who seem to con- 
sider, Heaven knows why, that it is quite impossible any 
man can mount a coach without requiring at least six- 
penny-worth of oranges, a penknife, a pocket-book, a 
last-year’s annual, a pencil-case, a piece of sponge, and 
a small series of caricatures. 

Half an hour more, and the sun darts his bright rays 
cheerfully down the still half-empty streets, and shines 
with sufficient force to rouse the dismal laziness of the 
apprentice, who pauses every other minute from his task 
of sweeping out the shop and watering the pavement in 
front of it, to tell another apprentice similarly employed, 
how hot it will be to-day, or to stand with his right hand 
shading his eyes, and his left resting on the broom, gaz- 
ing at the “Wonder,’’ or the “Tally-ho,” or the “Nim- 
rod,” or some other fast coach, till it is out of sight, when 
he reenters the shop, envying the passengers on the out- 
side of the fast coach, and thinking of the old red brick 
house “ down in the country, where he went to school : 


76 


SKETCHES BY BOZ. 


the miseries of the milk and water, and thick bread and 
scrapings, fading into nothing before the pleasant recol- 
lection of the green field the boys used to play in, and 
the green pond he was caned for presuming to fall into, 
and other schoolboy associations. 

Cabs, with trunks and bandboxes between the drivers’ 
legs and outside the apron, rattle briskly up and down 
the streets on their way to the coach-offices or steam- 
packet wharfs ; and the cab-drivers and hackney-coach- 
men who are on the stand polish up the ornamental part 
of their dingy vehicles — the former wondering how 
people can prefer them wild beast cariwans of homni- 
buses, to a riglar cab with a fast trotter,” and the latter 
admiring how people can trust their necks into one of 
^‘them crazy cabs, when they can have a ’spectable ’ack- 
ney-cotche with a pair of ’orses as von’t run away with 
no vun ; ” a consolation unquestionably founded on fact, 
seeing that a hackney-coach horse never was known to 
run at all, “ except,” as the smart cabman in front of the 
rank observes, “ except one, and he run back’ards.” 

The shops are now completely opened, and apprentices 
and shopmen are busily engaged in cleaning and decking 
the windows for the day. The bakers’ shops in town are 
filled with servants and children waiting for the drawing 
of the first batch of rolls — an operation which was per- 
formed a full hour ago in the suburbs ; for the early clerk 
population of Somers and Camden towns, Islington, and 
Pentonville, are fast pouring into the city, or directing 
their steps towards Chancery Lane and the Inns of Court. 
Middle-aged men, whose salaries have by no means in- 
creased in the same proportion as their families, plod 
sleadily along, apparently with no object in view but the 
counting-house ; knowing by sight almost everybody they 


THE STREETS — MORNING. 


77 


meet or overtake, for they have seen them every morning 
(Sundays excepted) during the last twenty years, but 
speaking to no one. If they do happen to overtake a 
personal acquaintance, they just exchange a hurried salu- 
tation, and keep walking on either by his side, or in front 
of him, as his rate of walking may chance to be. As to 
stopping to shake hands, or to take the friend’s arm,Ihey 
seem to think that as it is not included in their salary, 
they have no right to do it. Small office lads in large 
hats, who are made men before they are boys, hurry 
along in pairs, with their first coat carefully brushed, and 
the white trousers of last Sunday plentifully besmeared 
with dust and ink. It evidently requires a considerable 
mental struggle to avoid investing part of the day’s din- 
ner-money in the purchase of the stale tarts so tempt- 
ingly exposed in dusty tins at the pastry-cook’s doors ; 
but the consciousness of their own importance and the 
receipt of seven shillings a-week, with the prospect of 
an early rise to eight, comes to their aid, and they ac- 
cordingly put their hats a little more on one side, and 
look under the bonnets of all the milliners’ and stay- 
makers’ apprentices they meet — poor girls ! — the hard- 
est worked, the worst paid, and too often, the worst used 
class of the community. 

Eleven o’clock, and a new set of people fill the streets. 
The goods in the shop-windows are invitingly arranged ; 
the shopmen in their white neckerchiefs and spruce coats, 
look as if they couldn’t clean a window if their lives 
depended on it ; the carts have disappeared from Covent 
Garden ; the wagoners have returned, and the coster- 
mongers repaired to their ordinary “ beats ” in the sub- 
urbs ; clerks are at their offices, and gigs, cabs, omnibuses, 
and saddle-horses, are conveying their masters to the stune 


78 


SKETCHES BY BOZ. 


destination. The streets are thronged with a vast con- 
course of people, gay and shabby, rich and poor, idle and 
industrious ; and we come to the heat, bustle, and activity 
of Noon. 


CHAPTER II. 

THE STREETS NIGHT. 

But the streets of London, to be beheld in the very 
height of their glory, should be seen on a dark, dull, 
murky winter’s night, when .there is just enough damp 
gently stealing down to make the pavement greasy, with- 
out cleansing it of any of its impurities ; and when the 
heavy lazy mist, which hangs over every object, makes 
the gas-lamps look brighter, and the brilliantly lighted 
shops more splendid, from the contrast they present to 
the darkness around. All the people who are at home 
on such a night as this, seem disposed to make themselves 
as snug and comfortable as possible ; and the passengers 
in the streets have excellent reason to envy the fortunate 
individuals who are seated by their own firesides. 

In the larger and better kind of streets, dining-parlor 
curtains are closely drawn, kitchen-fires blaze brightly 
up, and savory steams of hot dinners salute the nostrils 
of the hungry wayfarer, as he plods wearily by the area 
railings. In the suburbs, the muffin-boy rings his way 
down the little street, much more slowly than he is wont 
to do ; for Mrs. Macklin, of No. 4, has no sooner opened 
her little street-door, and screamed out “ Muffins I ” with 


THE 'STREETS — NIGHT. 


79 


all her might, than Mrs. Walker, at No. 5, puts her head 
out of the parlor- window, and screams ‘‘ Muffins ! ” too; 
and Mrs. Walker has scarcely got the words out of her 
lips, than Mrs. Peplow, over the way, lets loose Master 
Peplow, who darts down the street, with a velocity which 
nothing hut buttered muffins in perspective could possi- 
bly inspire, and drags the boy back by main force, where- 
upon Mrs. Macklin and Mrs. Walker, just to save the 
boy trouble, and to say a few neighborly words to Mrs. 
Peplow at the same time, run over the way and buy 
their muffins at Mrs, Peplov/’s door, when it appears 
from the voluntary statement of Mrs. Walker, that her 
“ kittle ’s just a-biling, and the cups and sarsers ready 
laid,” and that, as it was such a wretched night out o’ 
doors, she’d made up her mind to have a nice hot com- 
fortable cup o’ tea — a determination at which, by the 
most singular .coincidence, the other tw’o IMies had si- 
multaneously arrived. 

After a little conversation about the wretchedness of 
the weather and the merits of tea, with a digression rela- 
tive to the viciousness of boys as a rule, and the amia- 
bility of Master Peplow as an exception, Mrs. Walker 
sees her husband coming down the street ; and as he must 
want his tea, poor man, after his dirty walk from the 
Docks, she instantly runs across, muffins in hand, and 
Mrs. Macklin does the same, and after a few words to 
Mrs. Walker, they all pop into their little houses, and 
slam their little street-doors, which are not opened again 
for the remainder of the evening, except to the nine 
o’clock “ beer,” who ’comes round with a Irmtern in front 
of his tray, and says, as he lends Mrs. Walker “ Yester- 
day’s ’Tiser,” that he’s blessed if he can hardly hold the 
pot, much less feel the paper, for it’s one of th(‘, bitterest 


80 


SliETCHES BY BOZ. 


nights he ever felt, ’cept the night when the man was 
frozen to death in the Brick-field. 

After a little prophetic conversation with the policeman 
at the street-corner, touching a probable change in the 
weather, and the setting-in of a hard frost, the nine 
o'clock beer returns to his master’s house, and employs 
himself for the remainder of the evening in assiduously 
stirring the tap-room fire, and deferentially taking part in 
the conversation of the worthies assembled round it. 

The streets in the vicinity of the Marsh Gate and 
Victoria Theatre present an appearance of dirt and dis- 
comfort on such a night, which the groups who lounge 
about them in no degree tend to diminish. Even the 
little block-tin temple sacred to baked potatoes, sur- 
mounted by a splendid design in variegated lamps, looks 
less gay than usual ; and as to the kidney-pie stand, its 
glory has quite departed. The candle in j:he transparent 
lamp, manufactured of oil-paper, embellished with “ char- 
acters,” has been blown out fifty times, so the kidney-pie 
merchant, tired with running backwards and forwards to 
the next wine-vaults, to get a light, has given up the 
idea of illumination in despair, and the only signs of his 
“ whereabout,” are the bright sparks, of which a long ir- 
regular train is whirled down the street every time he 
opens his portable oven to hand a hot kidney-pie to a 
customer. 

Flat fish, oyster, and fruit venders linger hopelessly in 
the kennel, in vain endeavoring to attract customers ; and 
the ragged boys who usually disport themselves about 
the streets, stand crouched in little,* knots in some pro- 
jecting doorway, or under the canvas blind of the cheese- 
monger’s, where great fiaring gas-lights, unshaded by any 
glass, display huge piles of bright red, and pale yellow 


THE STREETS — NIGHT. 


81 


cheeses, mingled with little five-penny dabs of dingy 
bacon, various tubs of weekly Dorset, and cloudy rolls 
of “ best fresh.” 

Here they amuse themselves with theatrical converse, 
arising out of their last half-price visit to the Victoria 
gallery, admire the terrific combat, which is nightly en- 
cored, and expatiate on the inimitable manner in which 
Bill Thompson c^n “ come the double monkey,” or go 
through the mysterious involutions of a sailor’s hornpipe. 

It is nearly eleven o’clock, and the cold thin rain 
which has been drizzling so long, is beginning to pour 
down in good earnest ; the baked-potato man has de- 
parted — the kidney-pie man has just walked away with 
his warehouse on his arm — the cheesemonger has drawn 
in his blind, and the boys have dispersed. The constant 
clicking of pattens on the slippy and uneven pavement, 
and the rustling of umbrellas, as the wind blows against 
the shop-windows, bear testimony to the inclemency of 
the night ; and the policeman, with his oil-skin cape but- 
toned closely round him, seems as he holds his hat on his 
head, and turns round to avoid the gust of wind and rain 
which drives against him at the street-corner, to be very 
far from congratulating himself on the prospect before 
him. 

The little chandler’s shop with the cracked bell behind 
the door, whose melancholy tinkling has been regulated 
by the demand for quarterns of sugar and half-ounces of 
coffee, is shutting up. The crowds which have been 
passing to and fro during the whole day, are rapidly 
dwindling away; and the noise of shouting and quarrel- 
ling which issues from the public-houses, is almost the 
only sound that breaks the melancholy stillness of the 
night. 


VOL. I. 


6 


82 


SKETCHES BY BOZ. 


There was another, but it has ceased. That wretched 
woman with the infant in her arms, round whose meagre 
form the remnant of her own scanty shawl is carefully 
wrapped, has been attempting to sing some popular bal- 
lad, in the hope of wringing a few pence from the com- 
passionate passer-by. A brutal laugh at her weak voice 
is all she has gained. The tears fall thick and fast down 
her own pale face ; the child is cold and hungry, and its 
low half-stifled wailing adds to the misery of its wretched 
mother, as she moans aloud, and sinks despairingly down, 
on a cold damp door-step. 

Singing ! How few of those who pass such a miser- 
able creature as this, think of the anguish of heart, the 
sinking of soul and spirit, which the very effort of sing- 
ing produces. Bitter mockery ! Disease, neglect, and 
starvation, faintly articulating the words of the joyous 
ditty, that has enlivened your hours of feasting and mer- 
riment. God knows how often ! It is no subject of 
jeering. The weak tremulous voice tells a fearful tale 
of want and famishing; and the feeble singer of this 
roaring song may turn away, only to die of cold and 
hunger. 

One o’clock ! Parties returning from the different 
theatres foot it through the muddy streets ; cabs, hack- 
ney-coaches, carriages, and theatre omnibuses, roll swiftly 
by ; watermen with dim dirty lanterns in their hands, 
and large brass plates upon their breasts, who have been 
shouting and rushing about for the last two hours, retire 
to their watering-houses, to solace themselves with the 
creature comforts of pipes and purl ; the half-price pit 
and box frequenters of the theatres throng to the dif 
ferent houses of refreshment ; and chops, kidneys, rab- 
bits, oysters, stout, cigars, and “ goes ” innumerable, are 


THE STREETS NIGHT. 


83 


served up amidst a noise and confusion of smoking, 
running, knife-clattering, and waiter-chattering, perfectly 
indescribable. 

The more musical portion of the play-going commu- 
nity, betake themselves to some harmonic meeting. As 
a matter of curiosity let us follow them thither for a few 
moments. 

In a lofty room of spacious dimensions, are seated some 
eighty or a hundred guests knocking little pewter meas- 
ures on the tables, and hammering away with the .han- 
dles of their knives, as if they were so many trunk- 
makers. They are applauding a glee, which has just 
been executed by the three professional gentlemen ” at 
the top of - the centre-table, one of whom is in the chair 
— the little pompous man with the bald head just emerg- 
ing from the collar of his green coat. The others are 
seated on either side of him — the stout man with the 
small voice, and the thin-faced dark man in black. The 
little man in the chair is a most amusing personage, — 
such condescending grandeur, and such a voice ! 

“ Bass ! ” as the young gentleman near us with the 
blue stock forcibly remarks to his companion, bass ! I 
b’lieve you ; he can go down lower than any man ; so 
low sometimes that you can’t hear him.” And so he 
does. To hear him growling away, gradually lower and 
lower down, till he can’t get back again, is the most de- 
lightful thing in the world, and it is quite impossible to 
witness unmoved the impressive solemnity with which he 
pours forth his soul in My ’art’s in the ’ighlands,” or 
“ The brave old Hoak.” Tlie stout man is also addicted 
to sentimentality, and warbles “ Fly, fly from the world, 
my Bessy, with me,” or some such song, with ladylike 
sweetness, and in the most seductive tones imaginable. 


84 


SKETCHES BY BOZ. 


Pray give your orders, gen’l’men — pray give your 
orders,” — says the pale-faced man with the red head; 
and demands for “ goes ” of gin and “ goes ” of brandy, 
and pints of stout, and cigars of peculiar mildness, are 
vociferously made from all parts of the room. The 
“ professional gentlemen ” are in the very height of their 
glory, and bestow condescending nods, or even a word or 
two of recognition on the better known frequenters of 
the room, in the most bland and patronizing manner 
possible. 

That little round-faced man, with the small brown 
surtout, white stockings and shoes, is in the comic line ; 
the mixed air of self-denial, and mental consciousness 
of his own powers, with which he acknowledges the call 
of the chair, is particularly gratifying. “ Gen’l’men,” 
says the little pompous man, accompanying the word 
with a knock of the president’s hammer on the table — 
“ Gen’Finen, allow me to claim your attention — our 
friend, Mr. Smuggins, will oblige.” — “ Bravo ! ” shout 
the company ; and Smuggins, after a considerable quan- 
tity of coughing by way of symphony, and a most face- 
tious sniff or two, which afford general delight, sings a 
comic song, with a fal-de-ral — tol-de-rol chorus at the 
end of every verse, much longer than the verse itself 
It is received with unbounded applause, and after some 
aspiring genius has volunteered a recitation, and failed 
dismally therein, the little pompous man gives another 
knock, and says, “ Gen’l’men, we will attempt a glee, if 
you please.” This announcement calls forth tumultuous 
applause, and the more energetic spirits express the un- 
qualified approbation it affords them, by knocking one or 
two stout glasses off their legs — a humorous device ; 
but one which frequently occasions some slight alterca- 


SHOPS AND THEIR TENANTS. 


85 


tion when the form of paying the damage is proposed to 
be gone through by the waiter. 

Scenes like these are continued until three or four 
o’clock in the morning ; and even when they close, fresh 
ones open to the inquisitive novice. But as a description 
of all of them, however slight, would require a volume, 
the contents of which,* however instructive, would be 
by no means pleasing, w^e make our bow, and drop the 
curtain. 


CHAPTER III. 

SHOPS AND THEIR TENANTS. 

What inexhaustible food for speculation, do the streets 
of London afford ! We never were able to agree with 
Sterne in pitying the man who could travel from Dan to 
Beersheba, and say that all was barren ; we have not 
the slightest commiseration for the man who can take up 
his hat and stick, and walk from Covent Garden to St. 
Paul’s Churchyard, and back into the bargain, without 
deriving some amusement — we had almost said instruc- 
tion — from his perambulation. And yet there are such 
beings : we meet them every day. Large black stocks 
and light waistcoats, jet canes and discontented counte- 
nances, are the characteristics of the race ; other people 
brush quickly by you, steadily plodding on to business, 
or cheerfully running after pleasure. These men linger 
listlessly past, looking as happy and animated as a police- 
man on duty. Nothing seems to make an impression on 


86 


SKETCHES BY BOZ. 


their minds : nothing short of being knocked down by a 
porter, or run over by a cab, will disturb their equa- 
nimity. You will meet them on a fine day in any of the 
leading thoroughfares : peep through the window of a 
west-end cigar-shop in the evening, if you can manage to 
get a glimpse between the blue curtains which intercept 
the vulgar gaze, and you see tlfem in their only enjoy- 
ment of existence. There they are lounging about, on 
round tubs and pipe-boxes, in all the dignity of whiskers 
and gilt watch-guards ; whispering soft nothings to the 
young lady in amber, with the large ear-rings, who, as 
she sits behind the counter in a blaze of adoration and 
gas-light, is the admiration of all the female servants 
in the neighborhood, and the envy of every milliner’s 
apprentice within two miles round. 

One of our principal amusements is to watch the grad- 
ual 'progress — the rise or fall — of particular shops. 
We have formed an intimate acquaintance with several, 
in different parts of town, and are perfectly acquainted 
with their whole history. We could name, off-hand, 
twenty at least, which we are quite sure have paid no 
taxes for the last six years. They are never inhabited 
for more than two months consecutively, and, we verily 
believe, have witnessed every retail trade in the direc- 
tory. 

There is one, whose history is a sample of the rest, in 
whose fate we have taken especial interest, having had 
the pleasure of knowing it ever since it has been a shop. 
It is on the Surrey side of the water — a little distance 
beyond the Marsh Gate. It was originally a substantial, 
good-looking private house enough ; the landlord got into 
difficulties, the house got into Chancery, the tenant went 
away, and the house went to ruin. At this period our 


SHOPS AND THEIR TENANTS. 


87 


acquaintance with it commenced : the paint was all worn 
off ; the windows were broken, the area was green with 
neglect and the overflowings of the water-butt; the butt 
itself was without a lid, and the street-door was the very 
picture of misery. The chief pastime of the children in 
the vicinity had been to assemble in a body on the steps, 
and take it in turn to knock loud double-knocks at the 
door, to the great satisfaction of the neighbors generally, 
and especially of the nervous old lady next door but one. 
Numerous complaints were made, and several small 
basins of water discharged over the offenders, but with- 
out effect. In this state of things, the marine-store 
dealer at the corner of the street, in the most obliging 
manner took the knocker off, and sold it : and the unfor- 
tunate house looked more wretched than ever. 

We deserted our friend for a few weeks. What was 
our surprise, on our return, to find no trace of its exist- 
ence ! In its place was a handsome shop, fast approach- 
ing to a state of completion, and on the shutters were 
large bills, informing the public that it would sliortly be 
opened with ‘‘an extensive stock of linen-drapery and 
haberdashery.” It opened in due course ; there was tlie 
name of the proprietor “ and Co.” in gilt letters, almost 
too dazzling to look at. Such ribbons and shawls ! and 
two such elegant young men behind the counter, each in 
a clean collar and white neckcloth, like the lover in a 
farce. As to the proprietor, he did nothing but walk u}) 
and down the shop, and hand seats to the ladies, and 
hold important conversations with the handsomest of the 
young men, who was shrewdly suspected by the neigh- 
bors to be the “ Co.” We saw all this with sorrow ; we 
felt a fatal presentiment that the shop was doomed — and 
so it was. Its decay was slow, but sure. Tickets grad- 


88 


SKETCHES BY BOZ. 


ually appeared in the windows ; then rolls of flannels, 
with labels on them, were stuck outside the door ; then a 
bill was pasted on the .street-door, intimating that the 
first floor was to let furnished ; then one of the young 
men disappeared altogether, and the other took to a black 
neckerchief, and the proprietor took to drinking. The 
shop became dirty, broken panes of glass remained un- 
mended, and the stock disappeared piecemeal. At last 
the company’s man came to cut off the water, and then 
the linen-draper cut off himself, leaving the landlord his 
compliments and the key. 

The next occupant was a fancy stationer. The shop 
was more modestly painted than before, still it was neat ; 
but somehow we always thought, as we passed, that it 
looked like a poor and struggling concern. We wished 
the man well, but we trembled for his success. He was 
a widower evidently, and had employment elsewhere, for 
he passed us every morning on his road to the city. The 
business was carried on by his eldest daughter. Poor 
girl ! she needed no assistance. We occasionally caught 
a glimpse of two or three children, in mourning like her- 
self, as they sat in the little parlor behind the shop ; and 
we never passed at night without seeing' the eldest girl 
at work, either for them, or in making some elegant little 
trifle for sale. We often thought, as her pale face looked 
more sad and pensive in the dim candle-light, that if 
those thoughtless females who interfere with the miser- 
able market of poor creatures such as these, knew but 
one half of the misery they suffer, and the bitter priva- 
tions they endure, in their honorable attempts to earn a 
scanty subsistence, they would, perhaps, resign even op- 
poi'tunities for the gratification of vanity, and an immod- 
est love of self-display, rather than drive them to a last 


SHOPS AND THEIR TENANTS. 


89 


dreadful resource, which it would shock the delicate feel- 
ings of these charitahle ladies to hear named. 

But we are forgetting the shop. Well, we continued 
to watch it, and every day showed too clearly the in- 
creasing poverty of its inmates. The children were 
clean, it is true, but their clothes were threadbare and 
shabby ; no tenant had been procured for the upper part 
of the house, from the letting of which, a portion of the 
means of paying the rent was to have been derived, and 
a slow, wasting consumption prevented the eldest girl 
from continuing her exertions. Quarter-day arrived. 
The landlord had suffered from the extravagance of his 
last tenant, and he had no compassion for the struggles 
of his successor ; he put in an execution. As we passed 
one morning, the broker’s men were removing the little 
furniture there was in^the house, and a newly posted bill 
informed us it was again To Let.” What b^ame of 
the last tenant we never could learn ; we believe the girl 
is past all suffering, and beyond ail sorrow. God hel}) 
her ! We hope she is. 

We were somewhat curious to ascertain what would 
be the next stage — for that the place had no chance of 
succeeding now, was perfectly clear. The bill was soon 
taken down, and some alterations were being made in the 
interior of the shop. We. were in a fever of expecta- 
tion ; we exhausted conjecture — we imagined all possi- 
ble trades, none of which were perfectly reconcilable with 
our idea of the gradual decay of the tenement. It 
opened, and we wondered why we had not guessed at 
the real state of the case before. The shop — not a 
large one at the best of times — had been converted into 
two : one was a bonnet-shape maker’s, the other was 
opened by a tobacconist, who also dealt in walking-sticks 


SKETCHES EY EOZ. 


yo 

and Sunday newspapers ; the two w^ere separated by a 
thin partition, covered with tawdry striped paper. 

The tobacconist remained in possession longer than any 
tenant within our recollection. He was a red-faced, im- 
pudent, good-for-nothing dog, evidently accustomed to 
take things as they came, and to make the best of a bad 
job. He sold as many cigars as he could, and smoked 
the rest. He occupied the shop as long as he could make 
peace with the landlord, and when he could no longer 
live in quiet, he very coolly locked the door, and bolted 
himself. From this period, the two little dens have under- 
gone innumerable changes. The tobacconist was succeeded 
by a theatrical hair-dresser, who ornamented the window 
with a great variety of “ characters,” and terrific com- 
bats. The bonnet-shape maker gave place to a green- 
grocer, and the histrionic barber was succeeded, in his 
turn, by a tailor. So numerous have been the changes, 
that we have of late done little more than mark the 
peculiar but certain indications of a house being poorly 
inhabited. It has been progressing by almost impercep- 
tible degrees. The occupiers of the shops have gradu- 
ally ^iven up room after room, until they have only 
reserved the little parlor for themselves. First there 
appeared a brass plate on the private door, with “ Ladies’ 
School ” legibly engraved thereon ; shortly afterwards 
we observed a second brass plate, then a bell, and then 
another bell. 

When we paused in front of our old friend, and ob- 
served these signs of poverty, which are not to be^ mis- 
taken, we thought as we turned away, that the house had 
attained its lowest pitch of degradation. We were 
wrong. When we last passed it, a “ dairy ” was estab- 
lished in the area, and a party of melancholy-looking 


SCOTLAND YARD. 


91 


fowls were amusing themselves by running in at the 
front-door, and out at the back one. 


CHAPTER IV. 

SCOTLAND YARD. 

Scotland Yard is a small — a very small — tract of 
land, bounded on one side by the river Thames, on the 
other by the gardens of Northumberland House : abut- 
ting at one end on the bottom of Northumbeiland Street, 
at the other on the back of Whitehall Place. When this 
territory was first accidentally discovered by a country 
gentleman who lost his way in the Strand, some years 
ago, the original settlers were found to be a tailor, a pub- 
lican, two eating-house keepers, and a fruit-pie maker ; 
and it was also found to contain a race of strong and 
bulky men, who repaired to the wharfs in Scotland Yard 
regularly every morning, about five or six o’clock, to fill 
heavy wagons with coal, with which they proceeded to 
distant places up the country, and supplied the inhabi 
tants with fuel. When they had emptied their wagons, 
they again returned for *a fresh supply ; and this trade 
was continued throughout the year. 

As the settlers derived their subsistence from minis- 
tering to the wants of these primitive traders, the articles 
exposed for sale, and the places where they were sold, 
bore strong outward marks of being expressly adapted to 
their tastes and wishes. The tailor displayed in his 
window a Lilliputian pair of leafiier gaiters, and a dimin- 


92 


SKETCHES BY BOZ. 


utive round frock, while each doorpost was appropriately 
garnished with a model of a coal-sack. The two eating- 
house keepers exhibited joints of a magnitude, and pud- 
dings of a solidity, which coalheavers alone could appre- 
ciate ; and the fruit-pie maker displayed on his well- 
scrubbed window-board large white compositions of flour 
and dripping, ornamented with pink stains, giving rich 
promise of the fruit within, which made their huge mouths 
water, as they lingered past. 

But the choicest spot in all Scotland Yard was the old 
public-house in the corner. Here, in a dark wainscoted- 
room of ancient appearance, cheered by the glow of a 
mighty fire, and decorated with an enormous clock, 
whereof the face was white, and the figures black, sat the 
lusty coalheavers, quafiing large draughts of Barclay’s 
best, and puffing forth volmnes of smoke, which wreathed 
heavily above their heads, and involved the room in a 
thick dark cloud. From this apartment might their 
voices be heard on a winter’s night, penetrating to the 
very bank of the river, as they shouted out some sturdy 
chorus, or roared forth the burden of a popular song ; 
dwelling upon the last few words with a strength and 
length of emphasis which made the very roof tremble 
above them. 

Here, too, would they ' tell old legends of what the 
Thames was in ancient times, when the Patent Shot 
Manufactory wasn’t built, and Waterloo Bridge had 
never been thought of ; and then they would shake 
their heads with portentous looks, to the deep edifica- 
tion of the rising generation of heavers, who crowded 
round them, and wondered where all this would end ; 
whereat the tailor would take his pipe solemnly from his 
mouth, and say, how that he hoped it might end well, but 


SCOTLAND YARD. 


93 


he very much doubted whether it would or not, and 
couldn’t rightly tell what to make of it — a mysterious 
expression of opinion, delivei-ed with a semi-proplietic 
air, which never failed to elicit the fullest concurrence 
of the assembled company ; and so they would go on 
drinking and wondering till ten o’clock came, and with 
it the tailor’s wife to fetch him home, when the little 
party broke up, to meet again in the same room, and say 
and do precisely the same things on the following even- 
ing at the same hour. 

About this time the barges that came np the river be- 
gan to bring vague rumors to Scotland Yard of somebody 
in the city having been heard to say, that the Lord 
Mayor had threatened in so many words to pull down 
the old London Bridge, and build up a new one. At 
first these rumors were disregarded as idle tales, wholly 
destitute of foundation, for nobody in Scotland Yard 
doubted that if the Lord Mayor contemplated any such 
dark design, he would just be clapped up in the Tower 
for a week or two, and then killed oif for high treason. 

By degrees, however, the reports grew stronger, and 
more frequent, and at last a barge, laden with numerous 
chaldrons of the best Wallsend, brought up the positive 
intelligence that several of the arches of the old bridge 
were stopped, and that preparations were actually in prog- 
ress for constructing the new one. What an excitement 
was visible in the old tap-room on that memorable night 1 
Each man looked into his neighbor’s face, pale with alarm 
and astonishment, and read therein an echo of the senti- 
ments which filled his own breast. The oldest heaver 
present proved to demonstration, that the moment the 
piers were removed, all the watei* in the Thames would 
run clean off, and leave a dry gully in its place.. What 


94 


SKETCHES BY BOZ. 


Wcis to become of the coal-barges — of the trade of Scot- 
land Yard — of the very existence of its population ? 
The tailor shook his head more sagely than usual^ and 
giimiy pointing to a knife on the table, bid them wail 
and see what happened. He said nothing — not he ; 
but if the Lord Mayor didn’t fall a victim to popular 
indignation, why he would be rather astonished ; that 
was all. 

They did wait ; barge after barge arrived, and still no 
tidings of the assassination of the Lord Mayor. The 
first stone was laid : it was done by a Duke — the 
King’s brother. Yeai*s passed away, and the bridge 
was opened by the King himself. In course of time, 
the piers were removed ; and when the people in Scot- 
land Yard got up next morning in the confident expecta- 
tion of being able to step over to Pedlar’s Acre without 
wetting the soles of their shoes, tliey found to their un- 
speakable astonishment that the water was just where it 
used to be. 

A result so different from that wliich they had antici- 
pated from this first, improvement, produced its full effect 
upon the inhabitants of Scotland ITard. One of the eat- 
ing-house keepers began to court public opinion, and to 
look for customers among a new class of people. He 
covered his little dining-tables with white cloths, and got 
a painter’s apprentice to inscribe something about hot 
joints from twelve to two, in one of the little panes of 
Ills shop-window. Improvement began to march with 
rapid strides to the very threshold of Scotland Yard. A 
new market sprung up at Hungerford, and the Police 
Commissioners established their office in Whitehall Place. 
The traffic in Scotland Yard increased ; fresh Members 
were added to the House of Commons, the Metropolitan 


SCOTLAND YARD. 


95 


Representatives found it a near cut, and many other foot 
passengers followed their example. 

We marked the advance of civilization, and beheld it 
with a sigh. The eating-house keeper who manfully 
resisted the innovation of table-cloths, was losing ground 
every day, as his opponent gained it, and a deadly feud 
sprung up between them. The genteel one no longer 
took his evening’s pint in Scotland Yard, but drank gin 
and water at a “ parlor ” in Parliament-Street. The 
fruit-pie maker still continued to visit the old room, but 
he took to smoking cigars, and began to call himself a 
pastry-cook, and to read the papers. The old heavers 
still assembled round the ancient fireplace, but their talk 
was mournful : and the loud song and the joyous shout 
were heard no more. 

And what is Scotland Yard now ? How have its old 
customs changed ; and how has the ancient simplicity of 
its inhabitants faded away ! The old tottering public- 
house is converted into a spacious and lofty “wine- 
vaults gold leaf has been used in the construction of 
the letters which emblazon its exterior, and the poet’s art 
has been called into requisition, to intimate that if you 
drink a certain description of ale, you must hold fast by 
the rail. The tailor exhibits in his window the pattern 
of a foreign-looking brown surtout, with silk buttons, a 
fur collar and fur cuffs. He wears a stripe down the 
outside of each leg of his trousers : and we Imve detect- 
(id his assistants (for he has assistants now) in the act of 
sitting on the shop-board in the same uniform. 

At the other end of the little row of houses a boot- 
maker has established himself in a brick box, with the 
additional innovation of a first floor ; and here he exposes 
for sale, boots — real Wellington boots — an article which 


96 


SKETCHES BY BOZ. 


a few years ago, none of the original inhabitants had 
ever seen or heard of. It was bat the other day, that a 
dress-maker opened another little box in the middle of 
the row ; and, when we thought that the spirit of change 
could produce no alteration beyond that, a jeweller ap- 
peared, and not content with exposing gilt rings and 
copper bracelets out of number, put up an announcement, 
which still sticks in his window, that “ ladies’ ears may 
be pierced within.” The dress-maker employs a young 
lady who wears pockets in her apron ; and the tailor 
informs the public that gentlemen may have their own 
materials made up. 

Amidst all this change, and restlessness, and innova- 
tion, there remains but one old man, Tvho seems to mourn 
the downfall of this ancient place. He holds no con- 
verse with human kind, but, seated on a wooden bench at 
the angle of the wall which fronts the crossing from 
Whitehall Place, watches in silence the gambols of his 
sleek and well-fed dogs. He is the presiding genius of 
Scotland Yard. Years and years have rolled over his 
head ; but, in fine weather or in foul, hot or cold, wet or 
dry, hail, rain, or snow, he is still in his accustomed spot. 
Misery and wmnt are depicted in his countenance ; his 
form is bent by age, his head is gray with length of trial, 
but there he sits from day to day, brooding over the past ; 
and thither he will continue to drag his feeble limbs, 
until his eyes have closed upon Scotland Yard, and upon 
the world together. 

A few years hence, and the antiquary oP ahother gen- 
eration looking into some mouldy record of the strife and 
passions that agitated the world in these times, may 
glance his eye over the pages we have just filled : and 
not all his knowledge of the history of the past, not all 


SEVEN DIALS. 


97 


his black-letter lore, or his skill in book-collecting, not all 
the dry studies of a long life, or the dusty volumes that 
have cost him a fortune, may help him to the where- 
abouts, either of Scotland Yard, or of any one of the 
landmarks we have mentioned in describing it. 


CHAPTER V. 

SEVEN DIALS. 

We have always been of opinion that if Tom King 
and the Frenchman had not immortalized Seven Dials, 
Seven Dials would have immortalized itself. Seven 
Dials 1 the region of song and poetry — first effusions, 
and last dying speeches : hallowed by the names of Cat- 
nach and of Pitts names that will entwine themselves 
with costermongers, and barrel organs, when penny maga- 
zines shall have superseded penny yards of song, and 
capital punishment be unknown ! 

Look at the construction of the place. The gordiari 
knot was all very well in its way : so was the maze of 
Hampton Court : so is the maze at the Beulah Spji : so 
were the ties of stiff wLite neckcloths, when the diffi- 
culty of getting one on, was only to be equalled by the 
apparent impossibility of ever getting it off again. But 
what involutions can compare with those of Seven Dials ? 
Where is there such another maze of streets, courts, 
lanes, and alleys ? Where such a pure mixture of Eng- 
lishmen and Irishmen, as in this complicated part of Lon- 

VOL. I. 7 


98 


SKETCHES BY BOZ. 


don ? We boldly aver that we doubt the veracity of the 
legend to which we have adverted. We can suppose a 
man rash enough to inquire at random — at a house with 
lodgers too — for a Mr. Thompson, with all but the cer- 
tainty before his eyes, of finding at least two or three 
Thompsons in any house of moderate dimensions ; but a 
Frenchman — a Frenchman in Seven Dials! Pooh! 
He was an Irishman. Tom King’s education had been 
neglected in his infancy, and as he couldn’t understand 
half the man said, he took it for granted he was talking 
French. 

The stranger who finds himself in The Dials ” for 
the first time, and stands, Belzoni-like, at the entrance of 
seven obscure passages, uncertain which to take, will see 
enough around him to keep his curiosity and attention 
awake for no inconsiderable time. From the irregular 
square into which he has plunged, the streets and courts 
dart in all directions, until they are lost in the unwhole- 
some vapor which hangs over the house-tops, and renders 
the dirty perspective uncertain and oenfined ; and loung- 
ing at every corner, as if they came there to take a few 
gasps of such fresh air as has found its way so far, but is 
too much exhausted already, to be enabled to force itself 
into the narrow alleys around, are groups of people, 
whose appearance and dwellings would fill any mind but 
a regular Londoner’s with astonishment. 

On one side, a little crowd has collected round a coupler 
of ladies, who having imbibed the contents of various 
“ three-outs ” of gin and bitters in the course of the morn- 
ing, have at length differed on some point of domestic 
arrangement, and are on the eve of settling the quarrel 
satisfactorily, by an appeal to blows, greatly to the inter- 
est of other ladies who live in the same house, and tene- 


SEVEN DIALS. 


99 


merits adjoining, and who are all partisans on one side or 
other. 

“ Vy don’t you pitch into her, Sarah ? ” exclaims one 
half-dressed matron, by way of encouragement. “ Vy 
don’t you ? if my husband had treated her wuth a drain 
last night, unbeknown to me, I’d tear her precious eyes 
out — a wixen ! ” 

“ What’s the matter, ma’am ? ” inquires another old 
woman, who has just bustled up to the sp#t. 

“ Matter ! ” replies the first speaker, talking at the ob- 
noxious combatant, “matter! Here’s poor dear Mrs. 
Snlliwin, as has five blessed children of her own, can’t go 
out a charing for one arte moon, but what hussies must 
be a cornin’, and ’ticing avay her oun’ ’usband, as she’s 
been married to twelve year come next Easter Monday, 
for I see the certificate ven I vas a drinkin’ a cup o’ tea 
vith her, only the werry last blessed Ven’sday as ever 
was sent. I ’appen’d to say promiscuously ‘ Mrs. Sulli- 
win,’ says I — ” 

“ What do you mean by hussies ? ” interrupts a cham- 
pion of the other party, who has evinced a strong inclina- 
tion throughout to get up a branch fight on her own 
account (“ Hooroar,” ejaculates a pot-boy in parenthesis, 
“ put the kye-bosk on her, Mary I”), “What do you mean 
by hussies ? ” reiterates the champion. 

“ Niver mind,” replies the opposition expressively, 
“ niver mind ; you go home, and, ven you’re quite sober, 
mend your stockings.” 

This somewhat personal allusion, not only to the lady’s 
habits of intemperance, but also to the state of her ward- 
robe, rouses her utmost ire, and she accordingly complies 
with the urgent request of the bystanders to “ pitch in,” 
with considerable alacrity. The scuffle became -general, 


100 


SKETCHES BY BOZ. 


and terminates in minor play-bill phraseology, with “ ar- 
rival of the policemen, interior of the station-house, and 
impressive denouement” 

In addition to the numerous groups who are idling 
about the gin-shops and squabbling in the centre of the 
load, every post in the open space has its occupant, who 
leans against it for hours, with listless perseverance. It 
is odd enough that one class of men in London appear to 
have no ei^oyment beyond leaning against posts. We 
never saw a regular bricklayer’s laborer take any other 
recreation, fighting excepted. Pass through St. Giles’s 
in the evening of a week-day, there they are in their 
fustian dresses, spotted with brick-dust and whitewash, 
leaning against posts. Walk through Seven Dials on 
Sunday morning : there they are again, drab or light 
corduroy trousers, Blucher boots, blue coats, and great 
yellow waistcoats, leaning against posts. The idea of a 
man dressing himself in his best clothes, to lean against 
a post all day ! 

The peculiar character of these streets, and the close 
resemblance each one bears to its neighbor, by no means 
tends to decrease the bewilderment in which the unex- 
perienced wayfarer through The Dials ” finds himself 
involved. He traverses streets of dirty, straggling 
houses, with now and then an unexpected court com- 
posed of buildings as ill-proportioned and deformed as 
the half-naked children that wallow in the kennels. 
Here and there, a little dark chandler’s shop, with a 
cracked bell hung up behind the door to announce the 
entrance of a customer, or betray the presence of some 
young gentleman in whom a passion for shop tills has 
developed itself at an early age ; others, as if for sup- 
port, against some handsome lofty building, which usurps 


SEVEN DIALS. 


101 


the place of a low dingy public-house ; long rows of 
broken and patched windows expose plants that may 
have flourished when “ The Dials ” were built, in vessels 
as dirty as The Dials ” themselves ; and shops for the 
purchase of rags, bones, old iron, and kitchen-stuff, vie in 
cleanliness with the bird-fanciers and rabbit-dealers, 
which one might fancy so many arks, but for the irre- 
sistible conviction that no bird in its proper senses, who 
was permitted to leave one of them, would ever come 
back again. Brokers’ shops, which would seem to have 
been established by humane individuals, as refuges for 
destitute bugs, interspersed with announcements of day- 
schools, penny theatres, petition-writers, mangles, and 
music for balls or routs, complete the “ still life ” of 
the subject ; and dirty men, filthy women, squalid chil- 
dren, fluttering shuttlecocks, noisy battledoors, reeking 
pipes, bad fruit, more than doubtful oysters, attenuated 
cats, depressed dogs, and anatomical fowls, are its cheer- 
ful accompaniments. 

If the external appearance of the houses, or a glance 
at their inhabitants, present but few attractions, a closer 
acquaintance with either is little calculated to alter one’s 
first impression. Every room has its separate tenant, 
.and every tenant is, by the same mysterious dispensa- 
tion which causes a country curate to increase and mul- 
tiply ” most marvellously, generally the head of a numer- 
ous family. 

The man in the shop, perhaps, is in the baked “ jem- 
my” line,' or the firewood and hearth-stone line, or any 
other line which requires a floating capital of eighteen 
pence or thereabouts : and he and his family live in the 
shop and the small back parlor behind it. Then there is 
an Irish laborer and his family in the back kitchen, -and a 


102 


SKETCHES BY BOZ. 


jobbing-mau — carpet-beater and so forth — with his family 
in the front one. In the front one-pair, there’s another man 
with another wife and family, and in the back one-pair, 
there’s “ a young ’oman as takes in tambour-work, and 
dresses quite genteel,” who talks a good deal about “ my 
friend,” and can’t “ abear anything low.” The second floor 
front, and the rest of the lodgers, are just a second edition 
of the people below, except a shabby-genteel man in the 
back attic, who has his half pint of coffee every morning 
from the coffee-shop next door but one, which boasts a 
little front den called a coffee-room, with a fireplace, 
over which is an inscription, politely requesting that, “ to 
prevent mistakes,” customers will please to pay on de- 
livery.” The shabby-genteel man is an object of some 
mystery, but as he leads a life of seclusion, and never 
was known to buy anything beyond an occasional pen, 
except half pints of cofl^ee, penny loaves, and ha’porths 
of ink, his fellow -lodgers very naturally suppose him to 
be an author ; and rumors are current in the Dials, that 
he writes poems for Mr. Warren. 

Now anybody who passed through the Dials on a hot 
summer’s evening, and saw the different women of the 
house gossiping on the steps, would be apt to think that 
all was harmony among them, and that a more primitive 
set of people than the native Diallei*s could not be im- 
agined. Alas ! the man in the shop ill-treats his family ; 
the carpet-beater extends his professional pursuits to his 
wife ; the one-pair front has an undying feud with the 
two-pair front, in consequence of the two-pair front per- 
sisting in dancing over his (the one-pair front’s) head, 
when he and his family have retired for the night ; the 
two-pair back will interfere with the front kitchen’s chil- 
dren ; the Irishman comes home drunk every other 


MEDITATIONS IN MONMOUTH STREET. 103 

niglit, and attacks everybody; and the one-pair back 
screams at everything. Animosities spring up between 
floor and floor; the very cellar asserts his equality. Mrs. 

A. “ smacks ” Mrs. B.’s child, for “ making faces.” Mrs. 

B. forthwith throws cold water over Mrs. A.’s child, for 
calling names.” The husbands are embroiled — the 

quarrel becomes general — an assault is the consequence, 
and a police officer the result. 


CHAPTER VI. 

MEDITATIONS IN MONMOUTH STREET. 

We have always entertained a particular attachment 
towards Monmouth Street, as the only true and real em- 
porium for second-hand wearing apparel. Monmouth 
Street is venerable from its antiquity, and respectable 
from its usefulness. Holywell Street we despise ; the 
red-headed and red- whiskered Jews who forcibly haul 
you into their squalid houses, and thrust you into a suit 
of clothes, whether you will or not, we detest. 

The inhabitants of Monmouth Street are a distinct 
class ; a peaceable and retiring race, who immure them- 
selves for the most part in deep cellars, or small back- 
parlors, and who seldom come forth into the world, 
except in the dusk and coolness of evening, when they 
may be seen seated, in chairs on the pavement, smoking 
their pipes, or watching the gambols of their engaging 
children as they revel in the gutter, a happy troop of 
infantine scavengers. Their countenances bear a thought- 


104 


SKETCHES BY BOZ. 


ful and a dirty cast, certain indications of their love of 
traffic ; and their habitations are distinguished by that 
disregard of outward appearance, and neglect of personal 
comfort, so common among people who are constantly 
immersed in profound speculations, and deeply engaged 
in sedentary pursuits. 

We have hinted at the antiquity of our favorite spot. 
‘‘ A Monmouth Street laced coat ” was a by-word a cen- 
tury ago ; and still we find Monmouth Street the same. 
Pilot great-coats with wooden ' buttons, have usurped the 
place of the ponderous laced coats with full skirts ; em- 
broidered waistcoats with large fiaps, have yielded to 
double-breasted checks with roll-collars ; and three-cor- 
nered hats of quaint appearance, have given place to the 
low crowns and broad brims of the coachman school ; but 
it is the times that have changed, not Monmouth Street. 
Through every alteration and every change, Monmouth 
Street has still remained the burial-place of the fashions ; 
and such, to judge from all present appearances, it will 
remain until there are no more fashions to bury. 

We love to walk among these extensive groves of the 
illustrious dead, and to indulge in the speculations to 
Avhich they give rise ; now fitting a deceased coat, then a 
dead pair of trousers, and anon the mortal remains of a 
gaudy waistcoat, upon some being of our own conjuring 
up, and endeavoring from the shape and fashion of the 
garment itself, to bring its former owner before our 
mind’s eye. We have gone on speculating in this way, 
until whole rows of coats have started from their pegs, 
and buttoned up, of their own accord, round the waists 
of imaginary wearers ; lines of trousers have jumped 
down to meet them ; waistcoats have almost burst with 
anxiety to put themselves on ; and half an acre of shoes 


MEDITATIONS IN MONMOUTH STREET. 105 


have suddenly found feet to fit them, and gone stumping 
down the street with a noise which has fairly awakened 
us from our pleasant revery, and driven us slowly away, 
with a bewildered stare, an object of astonishment to the 
good people of Monmouth Street, and of no slight suspi- 
cion to the policeman at the opposite street-corner. 

We were occupied in this manner the other day, en- 
deavoring to fit a pair of lace-up half-boots on an ideal 
personage, for whom, to say the truth, they were full a 
couple of sizes too small, when our eyes happened to 
alight on a few suits of clothes ranged outside a shop- 
window, which it immediately struck us, must at different 
periods have all belonged to, and been worn by, the same 
individual, and had now, by one of those strange conjunc- 
tions of circumstances which will occur sometimes, come 
I to be exposed together for sale in the same shop. The 
I idea seemed a fantastic one, and we looked at the clothes 
; again, with a firm determination not to be easily led 
away. No, we were right; the more we looked, the 
more we were convinced of the accuracy of our previous 
impression. There was the man’s whole life written as 
, legibly on those clothes, as if we had his autobiography 
, engrossed on parchment before us. 

' The first was a patched and much-soiled skeleton suit ; 

I one of those straight blue cloth cases in which small boys 
I used to be confined before belts and tunics had come in, 
and old notions had gone out : an ingenious contrivance 
for displaying the full symmetry of a boy’s figure, by fas- 
I tening him into a very tight jacket, with an ornamental 
row of buttons over each shoulder, and then buttoning 
iiis trousers over it, so as to give his legs the appearance 
I of being hooked on, just under the armpits. This was 
, the boy’s dress. It had belonged to a town boy, we 


106 


SKETCHES BY BOZ. 


could see ; there was a shortness about the legs and arms 
of the suit, and a bagging at the knees, peculiar to the 
rising youth of London streets. A small day-school he 
had been at, evidently. If it had been a regular boys’ 
school they wouldn’t have let him play on the floor so 
much, and rub his knees so white. He had an indulgent 
mother, too, and plenty of halfpence, as the numerous 
smears of some sticky substance about the pockets, and 
just below the chin, which even the salesman’s skill 
could not succeed in disguising, sufficiently betokened. 
They were decent people, but not overburdened with 
riches, or he would not have so far outgrown the suit 
when he passed into those corduroys with the round 
jacket ; in which he went to a boys’ school, however, 
learnt to write ; and in ink of pretty tolerable blackness, 
too, if the place where he used to wipe his pen might be 
taken as evidence. 

A black suit and the jacket changed into a diminutive 
coat. His father had died, and the mother had got the 
boy a message-lad’s place in some office. A long-worn 
suit that one ; rusty and threadbare before it was laid 
aside, but clean and free from soil to the last. Poor 
woman ! We could imagine her assumed cheerfulness 
over the scanty meal, and the refusal of her own small 
portion, that her hungry boy might have enough. Her 
constant anxiety for his welfare, her pride in his growth, 
mingled sometimes with the thought, almost too acute to 
bear, that as he grew to be a man his old affection might 
cool, old kindnesses fade from his mind, and old promises 
be forgotten — the sharp pain that even then a careless 
word or a cold look would give her — all croAvded on our 
thoughts as vividly as if the very scene were, passing be- 
fore us. 


MEDITATIONS IN MONMOUTH STREET. 107 


These things happen every hour, and we all know it ; 
and yet we felt as much sorrow when we saw, or fancied 
we saw — it makes no difference which — the change 
that began to take place now, as if we had just conceived 
the bare possibility of such a thing for the first time. The 
next suit, smart, but slovenly ; meant to be gay, and yet 
not half so decent as the threadbare apparel ; redolent 
of* the idle lounge, and the blackguai'd companions, told 
us, we thought, that the widow’s comfort had rapidly 
faded away. We could imagine that coat — imagine! 
we could see it ; we had seen it a hundred times — 
sauntering in company with three or four other coats of 
the same cut, about some place of profligate resort at 
night. 

We dressed from the same shop-window in an instant, 
half a dozen boys of from fifteen to twenty ; and putting 
cigars into their mouths, and their hands into their pock- 
ets, watched them as they sauntered down the street, and 
lingered at the corner, with the obscene jest, and the oft- 
repeated oath. We never lost sight of them, till they 
had cocked their hats a little more on one side, and swag- 
gered into the public-house ; and then we entered the 
desolate home, where the mother sat late in the night, 
alone ; we watched her, as she paced the room in fever- 
ish anxiety, and every now and then opened the door, 
looked wistfully into the dark and empty street, and 
again returned, to be again and again disappointed. We 
beheld the look of patience with which she bore the brut- 
ish threat, nay, even the drunken blow ; and we heard 
the agony of tears that gushed from her very heart, as 
she sank upon her knees in her solitary and wretched 
apartment. 

A long period had elapsed, and a greater change had 


108 


SKETCHES BY BOZ. 


taken place, by the time of casting off the suit that hung 
above. It was that of a stout, broad-shouldered, sturdy- 
chested man ; and we knew at once, as anybody would, 
who glanced at that broad-skirted green coat, with the 
large metal buttons, that its wearer seldom walked forth 
without a dog at his heels, and some idle ruffian, the very 
counterpart of himself, at his side. The vices of the 
boy had grown with the man, and we fancied his home 
then — if such a place deserve the name. 

We saw the bare and miserable room, destitute of fur- 
niture, crowded with his wife and children, pale, hungry, 
and emaciated ; the man cursing their lamentations, stag- 
gering to the tap-room, from whence he had just returned, 
followed by his wife, and a sickly infant, clamoring for 
bread ; and heard the street-wrangle and noisy recrimi- 
nation that his striking her occasioned. And then imag- 
ination led us to some metropolitan workhouse, situated 
in the midst of crowded streets and allies, filled with 
noxious vapors, and ringing with boisterous cries, where 
an old and feeble woman, imploring pardon for her son, 
lay dying in a close dark room, with no child to clasp 
her hand, and no pure air from heaven to fan her brow. 
A stranger closed the eyes that settled into a cold un- 
meaning glare, and strange ears received the words that 
murmured from the white and half-closed lips. 

A coarse round frock, with a worn cotton neckerchief, 
and other articles of clothing of the commonest descrip- 
tion, completed the history. A prison, and the sentence 
— banishment or the gallows. What would the man 
have given then, to be once again the contented humble 
drudge of his boyish years ; to have restored to life, but 
for a week, a day, an hour, a minute, only for so long a 
time as would enable him to say one word of passionate 


MEDITATIONS IN MONMOUTH STREET. 


109 


regret to, and hear one sound of heartfelt forgiveness 
from, the cold and ghastly form that lay rotting in the 
pauper’s grave ! The children wild in the streets, the 
mother a destitute widow ; both deeply tainted with the 
deep disgrace of the husband and father’s name, and im- 
pelled by sheer necessity, down the precipice that had led 
him to a lingering death, possibly of many years’ dura- 
tion, thousands of miles away. We had no clue to the 
end of the tale ; but it was easy to guess its termination. 

We took a step or two further on, and by way of re- 
storing the naturally cheerful tone of our thoughts, began 
fitting visionary feet and legs into a cellar-board full of 
boots and shoes, with a speed and accuracy that would 
have astonished the most expert artist in leather, living. 
There was one pair of boots in particular — ^ a jolly, good- 
tempered, hearty-looking, pair of tops, that excited our 
warmest regard ; and we had got a fine, red-faced, jovial 
fellow of a market-gardener into them, before we had 
made their acquaintance half a minute. They were just 
the very thing for him. There were his huge fat legs 
bulging over the tops, and fitting them too tight to admit 
of his tucking in the loops he had pulled them on by ; 
and his knee-cords with an interval of stocking ; and his 
blue apron tucked up round his waist ; and his red neck- 
erchief and blue coat, and a white hat stuck on one side 
of his head ; and there he stood with a broad grin on his 
great red face, whistling away, as if any other idea but 
that of being happy and comfortable had never entered 
his brain. 

This was the very man after our own heart ; we knew 
all about him ; we had seen him coming up to Covent 
Garden in his green chaise-cart, with the fat tubby little 
horse, half a thousand times ; and even while we cast an 


110 


SKETCHES BY BOZ. 


affectionate look upon his boots, at that instant, the foim * 
of a coquettish servant-maid suddenly sprung into a pair 
of Denmark satin shoes that stood beside them, and we 
at once recognized the very girl who accepted his offer 
of a ride, just on this side the Hammersmith suspension- 
bridge, the very last Tuesday morning we rode into town 
from Richmond. 

A very smart female, in a showy bonnet, stepped into 
a pair of gray cloth boots, with black fringe and binding, 
that were studiously pointing out their toes on the other 
side of the top-boots, and seemed very anxious to engage 
his attention, but we didn’t observe that our friend the 
market-gardener appeared at all captivated with these 
blandishments ; for beyond giving a knowing wink when 
they first began, as if to imply that he quite understood 
their end and object, he took no further notice of them. 
His indifference, however, was amply recompensed by 
the excessive gallantry of a very old gentleman with a 
silver-headed stick, who tottered into a pair of large list 
shoes, that were standing in one corner of the board, and 
indulged in a variety of gestures expressive of* his ad- 
miration of the lady in the cloth boots, to the immeas- 
urable amusement of a young fellow we put into a pair 
of long-quartered pumps, who we thought would have 
split the coat that slid down to meet him, with laughing. 

We had been looking on at this little pantomime with 
great satisfaction for some time, when, to our unspeakable 
astonishment, we perceived that tlie whole of the charac- 
ters, including a numerous cor^s de ballet of boots and 
shoes in the background, into which we had been hastily 
thrusting as many feet as we could press into the service, 
were arranging themselves in order for dancing; and 
some music striking up at the moment, to it they went 


MEDITATIONS IN MONMOUTH STREET. 


Ill 


without delay. It was perfectly delightful to witness the 
agility of the market-gardener. Out went the boots, first 
on one side, then on the other, then cutting, then shuffling, 
then setting to the Denmark satins, then advancing, then 
retreating, then going round, and then repeating the 
whole of the evolutions again, without appealing to 
suffer in the least from the violence of the exercise. 

Nor were the Denmark satins a bit behindhand, for 
they jumped and bounded about, in all directions ; and 
though they were neither so regular, nor so true to the 
time as the cloth boots, still, as they seemed to do it from 
the heart, and to enjoy it more, we candidly confess that 
we preferred their style of dancing to the other. But 
the old gentleman in the list shoes was the most amusing 
object in the whole party ; for, besides his grotesque 
attempts to appear youthful, and amorous, which were 
sufficiently entertaining in themselves, the young fellow 
in the pumps managed so artfully that every time the 
old gentleman advanced to salute the lady in the cloth 
boots, he trod with his whole weight on the old fellow’s 
toes, which made him roar with anguish, and rendered 
all the others like to die of laughing. 

We were in the full enjoyment of these festivities 
when we heard a shrill, and by no means musical voice, 
exclaim, “ Hope you’ll know me agin, imperence ! ” and 
on looking intently forward to see from whence the sound 
came, we found that it proceeded, not from the young 
lady in the cloth boots, as we had at first been inclined 
to suppose, but fi’om a bulky lady of elderly appearance 
who was seated in a chair at the head of the cellar-steps, 
apparently for the purpose of superintending the sale of 
the articles arranged there. 

A barrel organ which had been in full force close be- 


112 


SKETCHES BY BOZ. 


hind us, ceased playing ; the people we had been fitting 
into the shoes and boots took to flight at the interruption ; 
and as we were conscious that in the depth of our medi- 
tations we might have been rudely staring at the old lady 
for half an hour without knowing it, we took to flight too, 
and were soon immersed in the deepest obscurity of the 
adjacent “ Dials.” 


CHAPTER YIL 

HACKNEY-COACH STANDS. 

We maintain that hackney-coaches, properly so called, 
belong solely to the metropolis. We may be told, that 
there are hackney-coach stands in Edinburgh ; and not 
to go quite so far for a contradiction to our position, we 
may be reminded that Liverpool, Manchester, “ and other 
large towns ” (as the Parliamentary phrase goes), have 
their hackney-coach stands. We readily concede to these 
places, the possession of certain vehicles, which may look 
almost as dirty, and even go almost as slowly, as London 
hackney-coaches : but that they have the slightest claim 
to compete with the metropolis, either in point of stands, 
drivers, or cattle, we indignantly deny. 

Take a regular, ponderous, rickety, London hackney- 
coach of the old school, and let any man have the bold- 
ness to assert, if he can, that he ever beheld any object 
on the face of the earth which at all resembles it, unless, 
indeed, it were another hackney-coach of the same date. 
We have recently observed on certain stands, and we 
say it with deep regret, rather dapper green chariots, and 


HACKNEY-COACH STANDS. 


113 


coaches of polished yellow, with four wheels of the same 
color as the coach, whereas it is perfectly notorious to 
every one who has studied the subject, that every wheel 
ouglit to be of a different color, and a different size. 
These are innovations, and, like other miscalled improve- 
ments, awful signs of the restlessness of the public mind, 
and the little respect paid to our time-honored institu- 
tions. Why should hackney-coaches be clean ? Our 
ancestors . found them dirty, and left them so. Why 
should we, with a feverish wish to “ keep moving,” desire 
to roll along at the rate of six miles an hour, while they 
were content to rumble over the stones at four ? These 
are solemn considerations. Hackney-coaches are part and 
parcel of the law of the land ; they were settled by the 
Legislature ; plated and numbered by the wisdom of 
Parliament. 

Then why have they been swamped by cabs and omni- 
buses ? Or why should people be allowed to ride quickly 
for eightpence a mile, after Parliament had come to the 
solemn decision that they should pay a shilling a mile for 
riding slowly ? We pause for a reply ; — and, having no 
chance of getting one, begin a fresh paragraph. 

Our acquaintance with hackney-coach stands is of long 
standing. We are a walking book of fares, feeling our- 
selves half-bound, as it were, to be always in the right on 
contested points. We know all the regular watermen 
within three miles of Covent Garden by sight, and should 
be almost tempted to believe that all the hackney-coach 
horses in that district knew us by sight too, if one half 
of them were not blind. We take great interest in 
hackney-coaches, but we seldom drive, having a knack 
of turning ourselves over, when we attempt to do so. 
We are as great friends to horses, hackney-coach and 
8 


VOL. I. 


114 


SKETCHES BY BOZ. 


Otherwise, as the renowned Mr. Martin, of costermonger 
notoriety, and yet we never ride. We keep no horse, 
but a clothes-horse ; enjoy no saddle so much as a saddle 
of mutton ; and, following our own inclinations, have 
never followed the hounds. Leaving these fleeter means 
of getting over the ground, or of depositing one’s self upon 
it, to those who like them, by hackney-coach stands we 
take our stand. 

There is a hackney-coach stand under the very win- 
dow at which we are writing ; there is only one coach on 
it now, but it is a fair specimen of the class of vehicles 
to which w^e have alluded — a great, lumbering, square 
concern of a dingy yellow color (like a bilious brunette), 
with very small glasses, but very large frames ; the pan- 
els are ornamented with a faded coat of arms, in shape 
something like a dissected bat, the axletree is red, and 
the majority of the wheels are green. The box is par- 
tially covered by an old great-coat, with a multiplicity 
of capes, and some extraordinary -looking clothes ; and 
the straw with which the canvas cushion is stuffed is 
sticking up in several places, as if in rivalry of the hay, 
which is peeping through the chinks in the boot. The 
horses, with drooping heads, and each with a mane and 
tail as scanty and straggling as those of a w^orn-out rock- 
ing-horse, are standing patiently on some damp straw, 
occasionally wincing, and rattling the harness ; and, now 
and then, one of them lifts his mouth to the ear of his 
companion, as if he were saying, in a whisper, that he 
should like to assassinate the coachman. The coachman 
himself is in the watering-house ; and the waterman, 
with his hands forced into his pockets, as far as they can 
possibly go, is dancing the “ double shuffle,” in front of 
the pump, to keep his feet warm. 


HACKNEY-COACH STANDS. 


115 


The servant-girl, with the pink ribbons, at No. 5, op- 
posite, suddenly opens the street door, and four small 
children forthwith rush out, and scream “ Coach ! ” with 
all their might and main. The waterman darts from the 
pump, seizes the horses by their respective bridles, and 
drags them, and the coach too, round to the house, shouting 
all the time for the coachman at the very top, or rather 
very bottom of his voice, for it is a deep bass growl. A 
response is heard from the tap-room ; the coachman, in his 
wooden-soled shoes, makes the street echo again as he 
runs across it ; and then there is such a struggling, and 
backing, and grating of the kennel, to get the coach-door 
opposite the house-door, that the children are in perfect 
ecstasies of delight. What a commotion ! The old lady, 
who has been stopping there for the last month, is going 
back to the country. Out comes box after box, and one 
side of the vehicle is filled with luggage in no time ; the 
children get into everybody’s way, and the youngest, who 
has upset himself in his attempts to carry an umbrella, 
is borne otf wounded and kicking. The youngsters dis- 
appear, and a short pause ensues, during which the old 
lady is, no doubt, kissing them all round in the back- 
parlor. She appears at last, followed by her married 
daughter, all the children, and both the servants, who, 
with the joint assistance of the coachman and waterman, 
manage to get her safely into the coach. A cloak is 
handed in, and a little basket, which we could almost 
s^\'ear contains a small black bottle, and a paper of sand- 
wiches. Up go the steps, bang goes the door, “ Golden 
Cross, Charing Cross, Tom,” says the waterman, “ Good- 
by, grandma,” cry the children, off jingles the coach at 
the rate of three miles an hour, and the mamma and 
children retire into the house, with the exception of one 


116 


SKETCHES BY BOZ. 


little villain, who runs up the street at the top of his 
speed, pursued by the servant ; not ill pleased to have 
such an opportunity of displaying her attractions. She 
brings him back, and, after casting two or three gi'acious 
glances across the way, which are either intended for 
us or the potboy (we are not quite certain which) shuts 
the door, and the hackney-coach stand is again at a stand 
still. 

We have been frequently amused with the intense de- 
light with which “ a servant of all work,” who is sent for 
a coach, deposits herself inside ; and the unspeakable 
gratification which boys, who have been despatched on a 
similar errand, appear to derive from mounting the box. 
But we never recollect to have been more amused with 
a hackney-coach party, than one we saw early the other 
morning in Tottenham Court road. It was a wedding 
party, and emerged from one of the inferior streets near 
Fitzroy Square. There were the bride, with a thin 
white dress, and a great red face ; and the bridesmaid, a 
little, dumpy, good-humored young woman, dressed, of 
course, in the same appropriate costume ; and the bride- 
groom and his chosen friend, in blue coats, yellow waist- 
coats, white trousers, and Berlin gloves to match. They 
stopped at the corner of the street, and called a coach 
with an air of indescribable dignity. The moment they 
were in, the bridesmaid threw a red shawl, which she 
had, no doubt, brought on purpose, negligently over the 
number on the door, evidently to delude pedestrians into 
the belief that the hackney-coach was a private car- 
riage ; and away they went, perfectly satisfied that the 
imposition was successful, and quite unconscious that 
there was a great staring number stuck up behind, on a 
plate as large as a schoolboy’s slate. A shilling a mile ! 
— the ride was worth five, at least, to them. 


HACKNEY-COACH STANDS. 


117 

What an interesting book a hackney-coach might pro- 
duce, if it could carry as much in its head as it does in 
^its body ! The autobiography of a broken-down hack- 
ney-coach, ' would surely be as amusing as the autobi- 
ography of a broken-down hackneyed dramatist ; and it 
might tell as much of its travels with the pole, as others 
have of their expeditions to it. How many stories might 
be related of the different people it had conveyed on 
matters of business or profit — pleasure or pain ! And 
how many melancholy tales of the same people at differ- 
ent periods ! The country-girl — the showy, over-dressed 
woman — the drunken prostitute ! The raw apprentice 
— the dissipated spendthrift — the thief ! 

Talk of cabs ! Cabs are all very well in cases of ex- 
pedition, when it’s a matter of neck or nothing, life or 
death, your temporary home or your long one. But, 
beside a cab’s lacking that gravity of deportment which 
so peculiarly distinguishes a hackney-coach, let it never 
be forgotten that a cab is a thing of yesterday, and that 
he never was anything better. A hackney-cab has 
always been a hackney-cab, from his first entry into 
public life ; whereas a hackney-coach is a remnant of 
past gentility, a victim to fashion, a hanger-on of an old 
English family, wearing their arms, and, in days of yore, 
escorted by men wearing their livery, stripped of his 
finery, and thrown upon the world, like a once-smart 
footman when he is no longer sufficiently juvenile for his 
office, progressing lower and lower in the scale of four- 
wheeled degradation, until at last it comes to — a standi 


118 


SKETCHES BY BOZ. 


CHAPTER VIIL 
doctors' commons. 

Walking without any definite object, through St. 
Paul’s Churchyard, a little while ago, we happened to 
turn down a street entitled “ Paul’s Chin,” and keeping 
straight forward for a few hundred yards, found ourself, 
as a natural consequence, in Doctors’ Commons. Now 
Doctor’s Commons being familiar by name to everybody, 
as the place where they grant marriage-licenses to love- 
sick couples, and divorces to unfaithful ones ; register the 
wills of people who have any property to l6ave, and 
punish hasty gentlemen who call ladies by unpleasant 
names, we no sooner discovered that we were really 
within its precincts, than we felt a laudable desire to 
become better acquainted therewith ; and as the first 
object of our curiosity was the Court, whose decrees can 
even unloose the bonds of matrimony, we procured a 
direction to it ; and bent our steps thither without delay. 

Crossing a quiet and shady courtyard, paved with 
stone, and frowned upon by old red brick houses, on the 
doors of which were painted the names of sundry learned 
civilians, we paused before, a small, green-baized, brass- 
headed-nailed door, which yielding to our gentle push, at 
once admitted us into an old quaint-looking apartment, 
with sunken windows, and black carved wainscoting, at 
the upper end of which, seated on a raised platform, of 
semicircular shape, were about a dozen solemn-looking’ 
gentlemen, in crimson gowns and wigs. 


DOCTORS’ COMMONS. 


119 


At a more elevated desk in the centre, sat a very 
fat and red-faced gentleman, in tortoise-shell spectacles, 
whose dignified appearance announced the judge ; and 
round a long green-baized table below, something like a 
billiard-table without the cusliions and pockets, were a 
number of very self-important looking personages, in 
stiff neckcloths, and black gowns with white fur collars, 
whom we at once set down as proctors. At the lower 
end of the billiard-table was an individual in an arm- 
chair, and a wig, whom we afterwards discovered to be 
the registrar ; and seated behind a little desk, near the 
door, were a respectable-looking man in black, of about 
twenty stone weight or thereabouts, and a fat-faced, 
smirking, civil-looking body, in a black gown, black kid 
gloves, knee shorts, and silks, with a shirt-frill in his 
bosom, curls on his head, and a silver staff 4n his hand, 
whom we had no difficulty in recognizing as the officer 
of the Court. The latter, indeed, speedily set our mind 
at rest upon this point, for, advancing to our elbow, and 
opening a conversation forthwith, he had communicated 
to us, in less than five minutes, that he was the apparitor, 
and the other the court-keeper ; that this was the Arches 
Court, and therefore the counsel wore red gowns, and the 
proctors fur collars ; and that when the other courts sat 
there, they didn’t wear red gowns or fur collars either ; 
with many other scraps of intelligence equally interest- 
ing. Besides these two officers, there was a little thin 
old man, with long grizzly hair, crouched in a remote 
corner, whose duty, our communicative friend informed 
us, was to ring a large hand-bell when the Court opened 
in the morning, and who, for ought his appearance be- 
tokened to the contrary, miglit have been similarly em- 
ployed for the last two centuries at least. 


120 


SKETCHES BY BOZ. 


The red-faced gentleman in the tortoise-shell spectacles 
had got all the talk to himself just then, and very well 
he was doing it, too, only he spoke very fast, but that 
was habit ; and rather thick, but that was good living. 
So we had plenty of time to look about us. There was 
one individual who amused us mightily. This was one 
of the bewigged gentlemen in the red robes, who was 
straddling before the fire in the centre of the Court, in 
the attitude of the brazen Colossus, to the complete ex- 
clusion of everybody else. He had gathered up his robe 
behind, in much the same manner as a slovenly woman 
would her petticoats on a very dirty day, in order that he 
might feel the full warmth of the fire. His wig was put 
on all awry, with the tail straggling about his neck, his 
scanty gray trousers and short black gaiters, made in the 
worst possible style, imparted an additional inelegant 
appearance to his uncouth person ; and his limp, badly 
starched shirt-collar almost obscured his eyes. We shall 
never be able to claim any credit as a physiognomist 
again, for, after a careful scrutiny of this gentleman’s 
countenance, we had come to the conclusion that it be- 
spoke nothing but conceit and silliness, when our friend 
with the silver staff whispered in our ear that he was no 
other than a doctor of civil law, and heaven knows what 
besides. So of course we were mistaken, and he must 
be a very talented man. He conceals it so well though 
— perhaps with the merciful view of not astonishing 
ordinary people too much — that you would suppose 
him to be one of the stupidest dogs alive. 

The gentleman in the spectacles having concluded his 
judgment, and a few minutes having been allowed to 
elapse, to afford time for the buzz in the Court to sub- 
side, the registrai’ called on the next cause, which was 


DOCTORS’ COMMONS. 


121 


the office of the Judge promoted by Bumple against 
Sludberry.” A general movement was visible in the 
Court, at this announcement, and the obliging functionary 
with silver staff whispered us that ‘‘ there would be some 
fun now, for this was a brawling case.” 

We were not rendered much the wiser by this piece 
of information, till we found by the opening speech of 
the counsel for the promoter, that, under a half-obsolete 
statute of one of tS^^dwards, the court was empowered 
to visit with the penalty of excommunication, any person 
who should be proved guilty of the crime of “ brawling,” 
or “ smiting,” in any church, or vestry adjoining thereto ; 
and it appeared, by some eight-and-twenty affidavits, 
which were duly referred to, that on a certain night, at a 
certain vestry-meeting, in a certain parish particularly 
set forth, Thomas Sludberry, the party appeared against 
in that suit, had made use of, and applied to Michael 
Bumple, the promoter, the words “ You be blowed ; ” and 
that, on the said Michael Bumple and others remonstrat- 
ing with the said Thomas Sludberry on the impropriety 
of his conduct, the said Thomas Sludberry repeated the 
aforesaid expression, “ You be blowed ; ” and furthermore 
desired and requested to know, whether the said Michael 
Bumple “ wanted anything for himself ; ” adding, “ that 
if the said Michael Bumple did want anything for him- 
self, he, the said Thomas Sludberry, was the man to give 
it him ; ” and at the same time making use of other 
heinous and sinful expressions, ail of which, Bumple sub- 
mitted, came within tlie intent and meaning of the Act ; 
and therefore he, for the souls health and chastening of 
Sludberry, prayed for sentence of excommunication 
against him accordingly. 

Upon these facts a long argument was entered into, on 


122 


SKETCHES BY BGZ. 


both sides, to the great edification of a nnmuer of per- 
sons interested in the parochial squabbles, who crowded 
the court ; and when some very long and grave speeches 
had been made pro and con. the red-faced gentleman in 
the tortoise-shell spectacles took a review of the case, 
wliich occupied half an hour more, and then pronounced 
upon Sludberry the awful sentence of excommunication 
for a fortnight, and payment of the costs of the suit. 
Upon this, Sludberry, who was a little, red-faced, sly- 
looking, ginger-beer seller, addressed the court, and said, 
if they’d be good enough to take off the costs, and ex- 
communicate him for the term of his natural life instead, 
it would be much more convenient to him, for he never 
went to church at all. To this appeal the gentleman in 
the spectacles made no other reply than a look of virt- 
uous indignation ; and Sludberry and his friends retired. 
As the man with the silver staff informed us that the 
court was on the point of rising, we retired too — pon- 
dering, as we walked away, upon the beautiful spirit of 
these ancient ecclesiastical laws, the kind and neighborly 
feelings they are calculated to awaken, and the strong 
attachment to religious institutions which they cannot fail 
to engender. 

We were so lost in these meditations, that we had 
turned into the street, and run up against a door-post, 
before we recollected where we were walking. On look- 
ing upwards to see what house we had stumbled upon, 
the words “ Prerogative Office,” written in large charac- 
ters, met our eye ; and as we were in a sight-seeing 
humor and the place was a public one, we walked in. 

The room into which we walked, was a long, busy- 
looking place, partitioned off, on either side, into a variety 
of little boxes, in which a few clerks were engaged in 


DOCTORS’ COMMONS. 


123 


copying or examining deeds. Down the centre of the 
room were several desks nearly breast-higli, at each of 
which, three or four people were standing, poring over 
large volumes. As we knew that they were searching 
for wills, they attracted our attention at once. 

It was curious to contrast the lazy indifference of the 
attorneys’ clerks who were making a search for some 
legal purpose, with the air of earnestness and interest 
which distinguished the strangers to the place, who were 
looking up the will of some deceased relative ; the for- 
mer pausing every now and then with an impatient yawn, 
or raising their heads to look at the people who passed 
up and down the room ; the latter stooping over the 
book, and running down column after column of names 
in the deepest abstraction. 

There was one little dirty-faced man in a blue apron, 
who after a whole morning’s search, extending some fifty 
years back, had just found the will to which he wished to 
refer, which one of the officials was reading to him in a 
low hurried voice from a thick vellum book with large 
clasps. It was perfectly evident that the more the clerk 
read, the less the man with the blue apron understood 
about the matter. When the volume was first brought 
down, he took off his hat, smoothed down his hair, smiled 
with great self-satisfaction, and looked up in the reader’s 
face with the air of a man who had made up his mind 
to recollect every word he heard. The first two or three 
lines were intelligible enough ; but then the technicalities 
began, and the little man began to look rather dubious. 
Then came a whole string of complicated trusts, and he 
was regularly at sea. As the reader proceeded, it was 
quite apparent that it Avas a hopeless case, and the little 
man, with his mouth open and his eyes fixed upon his 


124 


SKETCHES BY BOZ. 


face, looked on with an expression of bewilderment and 
perplexity irresistibly ludicrous. 

A little further on, a hard-featured old man with a 
deeply wrinkled face, was intently perusing a lengthy 
will with the aid of a pair of horn spectacles : occasion- 
ally pausing from his task, and slily noting down some 
brief memorandum of the bequests contained in it. 
Every wrinkle about his toothless mouth, and sharp keen 
eyes, told of avarice and cunning. His clothes were 
nearly threadbare, but it was easy to see that he wore 
them from choice and not from necessity ; all his looks 
and gestures down to the very small pinches of snuff 
which he every now and then took from a little tin 
canister, told of wealth, and penury, and avarice. 

As he leisurely closed the register, put up his specta- 
cles, and folded his scraps of paper in a large leathern 
pocket-book, we thought what a nice hard bargain he was 
driving with some poverty stricken legatee, who, tired of 
waiting year after year, until some life-interest should fall 
in, was selling his chance, just as it began to grow most 
valuable, for a twelfth part of its worth. It was a good 
speculation — a very safe one. The old man stowed 
his pocket-book carefully in the breast of his great-coat, 
and hobbled away with a leer of triumph. That will 
had made him ten years younger at the lowest computa- 
tion. 

Having commenced our observations, we should cer- 
tainly have extended them to another dozen of people at 
least, had not a sudden shutting up and putting away of 
the worm-eaten old books, warned us that the time for 
closing the office had arrived ; and thus deprived us of a 
pleasure, and spared our readers an infliction. 

We naturally fell into a train of reflection as we walked 


LONDON RECREATIONS. 


125 


homewards, upon the curious old records of likings and 
dislikings; of jealousies and revenges ; of affection defy = 
ing the power of death, and hatred pursued beyond the 
grave, which these depositaries contain ; silent but strik- 
ing tokens, some of them, of excellence of heart, and 
nobleness of soul ; melancholy examples, others, of the 
worst passions of human nature. How many men as 
they lay speechless and helpless on the bed of death, 
would have given worlds but for the strength and power 
to blot out the silent evidence of animosity and bitter- 
ness, which now stands registered against them in Doc- 
tors’ Commons ! 


CHAPTER IX. 

LONDON RECREATIONS. 

The wish of persons in the humbler classes of life t: 
ape the manners and customs of those whom fortune has 
placed above them, is often the subject of remark, and 
not unfrequently of complaint. Tlie inclination may, and 
no doubt does, exist to a great extent, among the small 
gentility — the would-be aristocrats — of the middle 
lasses. Tradesmen and clerks, with fashionable novel- 
reading families, and circulating -library -subscribing 
daughters, get up small assemblies in humble imitation 
of Almack’s, and promenade the dingy large room ” of 
some second-rate hotel with as much complacency as the 
enviable few who are privileged to exhibit their magnifi- 
eence in that exclusive haunt of fashion and foolery. 


126 


SKETCHES BY BOZ. 


Aspiring young ladies, wlio read flaming accounts oi 
some “ fancy fair in high life,” suddenly grow desperately 
charitable ; visions of admiration and matrimony float 
l*efore their eyes ; some wonderfully meritorious institu- 
tion, which, by the strangest accident in the world, has 
never been heard of before, is discovered to be in a lan- 
guishing condition : Thomson’s great room, or Johnson’s 
nursery ground is forthwitli engaged, and the aforesaid 
young ladies, from mere charity, exhibit themselves for 
three days, from twelve to four, for the small charge of 
one shilling per head ! With the exception of these 
classes of society, however, and a few weak and insignifi- 
cant persons, we do not think tlie attempt at imitation 
to which we have alluded, prevails in any great degree. 
The different character of the recreations of different 
classes, has often afforded us amusement ; and we have 
chosen it for the subject of our present sketch, in the 
hope that it may possess some amusement for our 
readers. 

If the regular City man, who leaves Lloyd’s at five 
o’clock, and drives home to Hackney, Clapton, Stamford 
Hill or elsewhere, can be said to have any daily recreation 
beyond his dinner, it is his garden. He never does any- 
thing to it wdth his own hands ; but he takes great pride 
in it notwithstanding ; and if you are desirous of paying 
your addresses to the youngest daughter, be sure to be 
in raptures with every flower and shrub it contains. If 
your poverty of expression compel you to make any dis- 
tinction between the two, we would certainly recommend 
your bestowing more admiration on his garden than his 
wine. He always takes a walk round it, before he starts 
for town in the morning, and is particularly anxious that 
the fish-pond should be kept specially neat. If you call 


LONDON RECREATIONS. 


127 


on him on Sunday in summer-time, about an hour before 
dinner, you will find him sitting in an arm-chair, on the 
lawn behind the house, with a straw-hat on, reading a 
Sunday paper. A short distance from him you will most 
likely observe a handsome paroquet in a large brass-wire 
cage : ten to one but the two eldest girls are loitering in 
one of the side- walks accompanied by a couple of young 
gentlemen, who are holding parasols over them — of 
course only to keep the sun off — while the younger chil- 
dren, with the under nursery-maid, are strolling listlessly 
about, in the shade. Beyond these occasions, his delight 
in his garden appears to arise more from the conscious- 
ness of possession than actual enjoyment of it. When 
he drives you down to dinner on a week-day, he is rather 
fatigued with the occupations of the morning, and toler- 
ably cross into the bargain ; but when the cloth is re- 
moved, and he has drank three or four glasses of his 
favorite port, he orders the French windows of his din- 
ing-room (which of course look into the garden) to be 
opened, and throwing a silk handkerchief over his head, 
and leaning back in his arm-chair, descants at consider- 
able length upon its beauty, and the cost of maintaining 
it. This is to impress you — who are. a young fiaend of 
the family — with a due sense of the excellence of the 
garden, and the wealth of its owner ; and when he has 
exhausted the subject, he goes to sleep. 

There is another and a very different class of men, 
whose recreation is their garden. An individual of this 
class, resides some short distance from town — say in the 
Hampstead Road, or the Kilburn Road, or any other road 
where the houses are small and neat, and have little slips 
of back garden. He and his wife — who is as clean and 
compact a little body as himself — have occupied the 


128 


SKETCHES BY BOZ. 


same house ever since he retired from business twenty 
years ago. They have no family. They once had a son, 
who died at about five years old. The child’s portrait 
hangs over the mantelpiece in the best sitting-room, and 
a little cart he used to draw about is carefully preserved 
as a relic. 

In fine weather the old gentlenian is almost constantly 
in the garden ; and when it is too wet to go into it, he 
will look out of the window at it by the hour together. 
He has always something to do there, and you will see 
him digging, and sweeping, and cutting, and planting, 
with manifest delight. In spring-time, there is no end 
to the sowing of seeds, and sticking little bits of wood 
over them, with labels, which look like epitaphs to their 
memory ; and in the evening, when the sun has gone 
down, the perseverance with which he lugs a great water- 
ing-pot about is perfectly astonishing. The only other 
recreation he has, is the newspaper, which he peruses 
every day, from beginning to end, generally reading the 
most interesting pieces of intelligence to his wife, during 
breakfast. The old lady is very fond of flowers, as the 
hyacinth-glasses in the parlor-window, and geranium-pots 
in the little front court, testify. She takes great pride in 
the garden too : and when one of the four fruit-trees pro- 
duces rather a larger gooseberry than usual, it is carefully 
preserved under a wine-glass on the sideboard, for the 
(Hlification of visitors, who are duly informed that Mr. 
So-and-so planted the tree which produced it, with his 
own hands. On a summer’s evening, when the large 
watering-pot has been filled and emptied some fourteen 
times, and the old couple have quite exhausted them- 
selves by trotting about, you will see them sitting happily 
together in the little summer-house, enjoying the calm 


LONDON RECREATIONS. 


129 


and peace of the twilight, and watching the shadows as 
they fall upon the garden, and gradually growing thicker 
and more sombre, obscure the tints of their gayest flow- 
ers — no bad emblem of the years that have silently 
rolled over their heads, deadening in their course the 
brightest hues of early hopes and feelings which have 
long since faded away. These are their only recreations, 
and they require no more. They have within them- 
selves the materials of comfort and content ; and the 
only anxiety of each, is to die before the other. 

This is no ideal sketch. There used to be many old 
people of this description ; their numbers may have 
diminished, and may decrease still more. Whether the 
course female education has taken of late days — whether 
the pursuit of giddy frivolities, and empty nothings, has 
tended to unfit women for that quiet domestic life, in 
which they show far more beautifully than in the most 
crowded assembly, is a question we should feel little grat- 
ification in discussing : we hope not. 

Let us turn now, to another portion of the London 
population, whose recreations present about as strong a 
contrast as can well be conceived — we mean the Sun- 
day pleasurers ; and let us beg our readers to imagine 
themselves stationed^ by our side in some well-known 
rural “ Tea Gardens.” 

The heat is intense this afternoon, and the people, of 
whom there are additional parties arriving every moment, 
look as warm as the tables which have been recently 
painted, and have the appearance of being red-hot. What 
a dust and noise ! Men and women — boys and girls — 
sweethearts and married people — babies in arms, and 
children in chaises — pipes and shrimps — cigars and 
periwinkles — tea and tobacco. Gentlemen, in alarming 
9 


VOL. I. 


130 


SKETCHES BY BOZ. 


waistcoats, and steel watch-guards, promenading about, 
three abreast, with surprising dignity (or as the gentle- 
man in the next box facetiously observes, “ cutting it 
uncommon fat ! ”) — ladies, with great, long, white pock- 
et-handkerchiefs like small table-cloths, in their hands, 
chasing one another on the grass in the most playful and 
interesting manner, with the view of attracting the atten- 
tion of the aforesaid gentlemen — husbands in perspec- 
tive ordering bottles of ginger-beer for the objects of 
their affections, with a lavish disregard of expense ; and 
the said objects washing down huge quantities of 
‘‘ shrimps ’’ and “ winkles,” with an equal disregard of 
their own bodily health and subsequent comfort — boys, 
with great silk hats just balanced on the top of their 
heads, smoking cigars, and trying to look as if they liked 
them — gentlemen in pink shirts and blue waistcoats, 
occasionally upsetting either themselves or somebody 
else, with their own canes. 

Some of the finery of these people provokes a smile, 
but they are all clean, and happy, and disposed to be 
good-natured and sociable. Those two motherly looking 
women in the smart pelisses, who are chatting so confi- 
dentially, inserting a ‘‘ ma’am ” at every fourth word, 
scraped an acquaintance about a quarter of an hour ago : 
it originated in admiration of the little boy who belongs 
to one of them — that diminutive specimen of mortalit}’ 
in the three-cornered pink satin hat with black feathers. 
The two men in the blue coats and drab trousers, who 
are walking up and down, smoking their pipes, are th(;ir 
husbands. The party in the opposite box are a pretty 
fair specimen of the generality of the visitors. These 
are the father and mother, and old grandmother ; a 
young man and woman, and an individual addressed by 


LONDON RECREATIONS. 


131 


the euphonious title of “ Uncle Bill,” who is evidently 
the wit of the party. They have some half-dozen chil- 
dren with them, but it is scarcely necessary to notice the 
fact, for that is a matter of course here. Every woman 
in ‘‘ the gardens,” who has been married for any length 
of time, must have had twins on two or three occasions ; 
it is impossible to account for the extent of juvenile popu- 
lation in any other way. 

Observe the inexpressible delight of the old grand- 
mother, at Uncle Bill’s splendid joke of “ tea for four : 
bread and butter for forty ; ” and the loud explosion of 
mirth which follows his wafering a paper pigtail ” on 
the waiter’s collar. The young man is evidently ‘‘ keep- 
ing company ” with Uncle Bill’s niece : and Uncle Bill’s 
hints — such as ‘‘ Don’t forget me at the dinner, you 
know,” “ I shall look out for the cake, Sally,” ‘‘ I’ll 
be god -father to your first — wager it’s a boy,” and so 
forth, are equally embarrassing to the young people, and 
delightful to the elder ones. As to the old grandmother, 
'she is in perfect ecstasies, and does nothing but laugh 
herself into fits of coughing, until they have finished the 
“ gin-and- water warm with,” of which Uncle Bill or- 
dered “glasses round” after tea, “just to keep the night- 
air out, and do it up comfortable and riglar arter sitch 
an as-tonishing hot day ! ” 

It is getting dark and the people begin to move. The 
field leading to town is quite full of them ; the little hand- 
chaises are dragged wearily along, the children are tired, 
and amuse themselves and the company generally by 
crying, or resort to the much more pleasant expedient of 
going to sleep — the mothers begin to wish they were at 
home again -r- sweethearts grow more sentimental than 
ever, as the time for parting arrives — the gardens look 


132 


SKETCHES BY BOZ. 


mournful enough, by the light of the two lanterns which 
hang against the trees for the convenience of smokers — 
and the waiters, who have been running about incessantly 
for the last six hours, think they feel a little tired, as 
they count their glasses and their gains. 


CHAPTER X. 

THE RIVER. 

“ Are you fond of the water ? ” is a question very 
frequently asked, in hot summer weather, by amphib- 
ious-looking young men. “ Very,” is the general reply. 
“ A’n’t you ? ” — “ Hardly ever off it,” is the response, ac- 
companied by sundry adjectives, expressive of the speak- 
er’s heartfelt admiration of that element. Now, with 
all respect for the opinion of society in general, and cut- 
ter clubs in particular, we humbly suggest that some of 
the most painful reminiscences in the mind of every in- 
dividual who has occasionally disported himself on the 
Thames, must be connected with his aquatic recreations. 
Who ever heard of a successful water-party ? — or to put 
the question in a still more intelligible form, who ever 
saw one ? We have been on water excursions out of num- 
ber, but we solemnly declare that we cannot call to mind 
one single occasion of the kind, which was not marked 
by more miseries than any one would suppose could 
reasonably be crowded into the space of some eight or 
nine hours. Something lias always gone wrong. Either 
the cork of the salad-dressing has come ont, or the most 
anxiously expected member of the party has- not come, 


THE RIVER. 


133 


or the most disagreeable man in company would come 
out, or a child or two have fallen into the water, or the 
gentleman who undertook to steer has endangered every- 
body’s life all the way, or the gentlemen who volunteered 
to row have been “ out of practice,” and performed very 
alarming evolutions, putting their oars down into the 
water and not being able to get them up again, or taking 
terrific pulls without putting them in at all ; in either 
case, pitching over on the backs of their heads with 
startling violence, and exhibiting the soles of their pumps 
to the ‘‘ sitters ” in the boat, in a very humiliating manner. 

We grant that the banks of the Thames are very 
beautiful at Richmond and Twickenham, and other dis- 
tant havens, often sought though seldom reached ; but 
from the “ Red Us ” back to Blackfriar’s Bridge, the 
scene is wonderfully changed. The Penitentiary is a 
noble building, no doubt, and the sportive youths who 
“ go in ” at that particular part of the river, on a sum- 
mer’s evening, may be all very well in perspective ; but 
when you are obliged to keep in shore coming home, and 
the young ladies will color up, and look perseveringly the 
other way, while the married dittoes cough slightly, and 
stare very hard at the water, you feel awkward — espe- 
cially if you happen to have been attempting the most 
distant approach to sentimentality, for an hour or two 
pi-eviously. 

Although experience and suffering have produced in 
our minds the result we have just stated, we are by no 
means blind to a proper sense of the fun which a looker- 
on may extract from the amateurs of boating. What can 
be more amusing than Searle’s yard on a fine Sunday 
morning ? It’s a Richmond tide, and some dozen boats 
are preparing for the reception of the parties who have 


134 


SKETCHES BY BOZ. 


engaged them. Two or three fellows in great rough 
trousers and Guernsey shirts, are getting them ready by 
easy stages ; now coming down the yard with a pair of 
sculls and a cushion — then having a chat with the 
“jack,” who, like all his tribe, seems to be wholly inca- 
pable of doing anything but lounging about — then 
going back again, and returning with a rudder-line and a 
stretcher — then solacing themselves with another chat 
— and then wondering, with their hands in their capa- 
cious pockets, whgre them gentlemen’s got to as ordej’ed 
the six.” One of these, the headman, with the legs of 
his trousers cdrefully tucked up at the bottom, to admit 
the water, we presume — for it is an element in which 
he is infinitely more at home than on land — is quite a 
character, and shares with the defunct oyster-swallower 
the celebrated name of “ Dando.” Watch him, as taking 
a few minutes’ respite from his toils, he negligently seats 
himself on the edge of a boat, and fans his broad bushy 
chest with a cap scarcely half so furry. Look at his 
magnificent, though reddish whiskers, and mark the 
somewhat nativ e humor with which he chaff's ” the 
boys and prentices, or cunningly gammons the gen’l’m’n 
into the gift of a glass of gin, of which we verily believe 
he swallows in one day as much as any six ordinary men, 
without ever being one atom the worse for it. 

But the party ari*ives, and Dando relieved from his 
state of uncertainty, starts up into activity. They ap- 
pi-oach in full aquatic costume, with round blue jackets, 
striped shirts, and caps of all sizes and patterns, from the 
velvet skull-cap of French manufacture, to the easy head- 
dress familiar to the students of the old spelling-books, as 
having, on the authority of the portrait, formed part of 
the costume of the Reverend Mr. Dilworth. 


THE RIVER. 


135 


This is the most amusing time to observe a regular 
Sunday water-party. There has evidently been up to 
this period no inconsiderable degree of boasting on every- 
body’s part relative to his knowledge of navigation ; the 
sight of the water rapidly cools their courage, and the 
air of self-denial with which each of tliem insists on 
somebody else’s taking an oar, is perfectly delightful. At 
length, after a great deal of changing and fidgeting, con- 
sequent upon the election of a stroke-oar : the inability 
of one gentleman to pull on this side, of another to pull 
on that, and of a third to pull at all, the boat’s crew are 
seated. Shove her off! ” cries the cockswain, who looks 
as easy and comfortable as if he were steering in the Bay 
of Biscay. The order is obeyed ; the boat is imme- 
diately turned completely round, and proceeds towards 
Westminster Bridge, amidst such a splashing and strug- 
gling as never was seen before, except when the Royal 
George went down. ‘‘ Back wa’ater, sir,” shouts Dando, 
“ Back wa’ater, you sir, aft ; ” upon which everybody 
thinking he must be the individual referred to, they all 
back water, and back comes the boat, stern first, to the 
spot whence it started. ‘‘ Back water, you sir, aft ; pull 
round, you sir, for’ad, can’t you ? ” shouts Dando, in a 
frenzy of excitement. ‘‘ Pull rounrl, Tom, can’t you ? ” 
reechoes one of the party. “ Tom a’n’t for’ad,” replies 
another. ‘‘Yes, he is,” cries a third ; and the unfortunate 
young man, at the imminent risk of breaking a blood- 
vessel, pulls and pulls, until the head of the boat fairly 
lies in the direction of Vauxhall Bridge. “ That’s right 
— now pull all on you 1 ” shouts Dando again, adding, in 
un undertone, to somebody by him, “ Blowed if hever I 
see sich a set of muffs ! ” and away jogs the boat in a 
zigzag direction, every one of the six oars dipping into 


186 


SKETCHES BY BOZ. 


the water at a different time ; and the yard is once more 
clear, until the arrival of the next party. 

A well-contested rowing-match on the Thames, is a 
very lively and interesting scene. The water is studded 
with boats of all sorts, kinds, and descriptions ; places in 
the coal-barges at the different wharfs are let to crowds 
of spectators, beer and tobacco flow freely about ; men, 
women, and children wait for the start in breathless ex- 
pectation, cutters of six and eight oars glide gently up 
and down, waiting to accompany proteges during the 
race ; bands of music add to the animation, if not to the 
harmony of the scene, groups of watermen are assembled 
at the different stairs, discussing the merits of the re- 
spective candidates : and the prize-wherry which is 
rowed slowly about by a pair of skulls, is an object of 
general interest. 

Two o’clock strikes, and everybody looks anxiously in 
the direction of the bridge through which the candidates 
for the prize will come — half-past two, and the general 
attention which has been preserved so long begins to flag, 
when suddenly a gun is heard, and the noise of distant 
hurraing along each bank of the river — every head is 
bent forward — the noise draws nearer and nearer — 
the boats which have been waiting at the bridge start 
briskly up the river, and a well-manned galley shoots 
through the arch, the sitters cheering on the boats be- 
hind them, which are not yet visible. 

“ Here they are,” is the general cry — and through 
darts the first boat, the men in her stripped to the skin, 
and exerting every muscle to preserve the advantage they 
have gained — four other boats follow close astern ; there 
are not two boats’ lengrh between them — the shouting 
is tremendous, and the interest intense. Go on. Pink ” 


THE RIVER. 


137 


— “ Give it her, Red ’’ — Sulliwin forever ” — “ Bravo ! 
George ” — ‘‘ Now, Tom, now — now — now — why don’t 
your partner stretch out ? ” — “Two pots to a pint on 
Yellow,” &c., &c. Every little public-house fires its 
gun, and hoists its flag ; and the men who win the heat, 
come in, amidst a splashing and shouting, and banging 
and confusion, which no one can imagine who has not 
witnessed it, and of which any description would convey 
a very faint idea. 

One of the most amusing places we know, is the 
steam-wharf of the London Bridge, or St. Katharine’s 
Dock Company, on a Saturday morning in summer, 
when the Gravesend and Margate steamers are usu- 
ally crowded to excess ; and as we have just taken a 
glance at the river above bridge, we hope our readers 
will not object to accompany us on board a Gravesend 
packet. 

Coaches are every moment setting down at the en- 
trance to the wharf, and the stare of bewildered astonish- 
ment with which the “ fares ” resign themselves and 
their luggage into the hands of the porters, who seize all 
the packages at once as a matter of course, and run away 
with them, heaven knows where, is laughable in the ex- 
treme. A Margate boat lies alongside the wharf, the 
Gravesend boat (which starts first) lies alongside that 
again ; and as a temporary communication is formed be- 
tween the two, by means of a plank and hand-rail, the 
natural confusion of the scene is by no means dimin- 
ished. 

“ Gravesend ? ” inquires a stout fatlier of a stout fam- 
ily, who follow him, under the guidance of their mother, 
and a servant, at the no small risk of two or three of 
them being left behind in the confusion. “ Gravesend ? ” 


138 


SI^ETCHES BY BOZ. 


‘‘ Pass on, if you please, sir,” replies the attendant ^ 
‘‘ other boat, sir.” 

Hereupon the stout father, being rather mystified, and 
the stout mother rather distracted by maternal anxiety, 
the whole party deposit themselves in the Margate boat, 
and after having congratulated himself on having secured 
very comfortable seats, the stout father sallies to the 
chimney to look for his luggage, which he has a faint 
recollection of having given some man, something, to 
take somewhere. No luggage, however, bearing the 
most remote resemblance to his own, in shape or form, is 
to be discovered ; on which the stout father calls very 
loudly for an officer, to whom he states the case, in the 
presence of another father of another family — a little 
thin man — who entirely concurs with him (the stout 
father) in thinking that it’s high time something was 
done with these steam companies, and that as the Cor- 
poration Bill failed to do it, something else must ; for 
really people’s property is not to be sacrificed in this 
way ; and that if the luggage isn’t restored without 
delay, he will take care it sliall be put in tlie papers, 
for the public is not to be the victim of these great 
monopolies. To this, the officer, in Ins turn, replies, tiiat 
that company, ever since it has been St. Kat’rine’s Dock 
Company, has protected life and property ; that if it had 
been the London Bridge Wharf Company, indeed, he 
shouldn’t have wondered, seeing that the morality of that 
Company (they being the opposition) can’t be answered 
for, by no one ; but as it is, he’s convinced there must be 
some mistake, and he wouldn’t mind making a solemn 
oath afore a magistrate, that the gentleman ’ll find his 
luggage afore he gets to Margate. 

Here the stout father, thinking lie is making a capital 


THE RIVER. 


139 


point, replies, that as it happens, he is not going to Mar- 
gate at all, and that “ Passenger to Gravesend ” was on 
the luggage, in letters of full two inches long ; on which 
the officer rapidly explains the mistake, and the stout 
mother, and the stout children, and the servant, are hur- 
ried with all possible despatch on board the Gravesend 
boat, which they reach just in time to discover that their 
luggage is there, and that their comfortable seats are not. 
Then the bell, which is the signal for the Gravesend boat 
starting, begins to ring most furiously : and people keep 
time to the bell, by running in and out of our boat at a 
double-quick pace. The bell stops ; the boat starts : 
people who have been taking leave of their friends on 
board, are carried away against their will ; and people 
who have been taking leave of their friends on shore, 
find that they have performed a very needless ceremony, 
in consequence of their not being carried away at all. 
The regular passengers, who have season-tickets, go be- 
low to breakfast ; people who have purchased morning 
papers, compose themselves to read them ; and people 
who have not been down the river before, think that 
both the shipping and the wmter look a great deal better 
at a distance. 

When we get down about as far as Blackwall, and 
begin to move at a quicker rate, the spirits of the paS” 
sengers appear to rise in proportion. Old women who 
have brought large wicker hand-baskets with them, set 
seriously to work at the demolition of heavy sandwiches, 
and pass round a wine-glass, which is frequently replen- 
ished from a flat bottle like a stomach-warmer, with con- 
siderable glee : handing it first to the gentleman in the 
foraging cap, who plays the harp — partly as an expres- 
sion of satisfaction with his previous exertions, and 


140 


SKETCHES BY BOZ. 


partly to induce him to play Dumbledumbdeary,” 
for “ Alick ” to dance to ; which being done, Alick, who 
is a damp earthy child in red worsted socks, takes certain 
small jumps upon the deck, to the unspeakable satisfac- 
tion of his family circle. Girls who have brought the 
first volume of some new novel in their reticule, become 
extremely plaintive, and expatiate to Mr. Brown, or 
young Mr. O’Brien, who has been looking over them, on 
the blueness of the sky, and brightness of the water ; on 
which Mr. Brown or Mr. O’Brien, as the case may be, 
remarks in a low voice that he has been quite insensible 
of late to the beauties of nature — that his whole 
thoughts and wishes have centred in one object alone 

— whereupon the young lady looks up, and failing in her 
attempt to appear unconscious, looks down again ; and 
turns over the next leaf with great difficulty, in order 
to afford opportunity for a lengthened pressure of the 
hand. 

Telescopes, sandwiches, and glasses of brandy and 
water cold without, begin to be in great requisition ; 
and bashful men who have been looking down the hatch- 
way at the engine, find, to their great relief, a subject on 
which they can converse with one another — and a co- 
pious one too — Steam. 

“Wonderful thing steam, sir.” “Ah ! (a deep-drawn 
sigh) it is indeed, sir.” “ Great power, sir.” “ Immense 

— immense ! ” “ Great deal done by steam, sir.” “Ah ! 
(another sigh at the immensity of the subject, and a 
knowing shake of the h<*ad) you may say that, sir.” 
“ Still in its infancy, they say, sir.” Novel remarks of 
this kind, are generally the commencement of a conver- 
sation which is prolonged until the conclusion of the trip, 
and, perhaps, lays the foundations of a speaking acquaint- 


ASTLEY’S. 


141 


ance between half a dozen gentlemen, who, having their 
families at Gravesend, take season-tickets for the boat, 
and dine on board regularly every afternoon. 


CHAPTER XL 
astley’s. 

We never see any very large, staring, black Roman 
capitals, in a book, or shop-window, or placarded on a 
wall, without their immediately recalling to our mind an 
indistinct and confused recollection of the time when we 
were first initiated in the mysteries of the alphabet. We 
almost fancy we see the pin’s point following the letter, 
to impress its form more strongly on our bewildered 
imagination ; and wince involuntarily, as we remember 
the hard knuckles with which the reverend old lady who 
instilled into our mind the first principles of education 
for ninepence per week, or ten and sixpence per quarter, 
was wont to poke our juvenile head occasionally, by way 
of adjusting the confusion of ideas in which we were 
generally involved. The same kind of feeling pursues 
us in many other instances, but there is no place which 
recalls so strongly our recollections of childhood as 
Astley’s. It was not a “ Royal Amphitheatre ” in those 
days, nor had Ducrow arisen to shed the light of classic 
taste and portable gas over the sawdust of the circus ; 
but the whole character of the place was the same, the 
pieces were the same, the clown’s jokes were the same, 
the riding-masters were equally grand, the comic per- 


142 


SKETCHES BY BOZ. 


formers equally witty, the tragedians equally hoarse, and 
the “ highly-trained chargers ” equally spirited. Astley’s 
has altered for the better — we have changed for the 
worse. Our histrionic taste is gone, and with shame we 
confess, that we are far more delighted and amused with 
the audience, than with the pageantry we once so highly 
appreciated. 

We like to watch a regular Astley’s party in the 
Easter or Midsummer holidays — pa and ma, and nine 
or ten children, varying from five foot six to two foot 
eleven: from fourteen years of age to four. We had just 
taken our seat in one of the boxes, in the centre of the 
house, the other night, when the next was occupied by 
just such a party as we should have attempted to de- 
scribe, had we depicted our beau ideal of a group of 
Astley’s visitors. 

First of all, there came three little boys and a little 
girl, who in pursuance of pa^s directions, issued in a very 
audible voice from the box-door, occupied the front row ; 
then two more little girls were ushered in by a young 
lady, evidently the governess. Then came three more 
little boys, dressed like the first, in blue jackets and trou- 
sers, with lay- down shirt-collars : then a child in a 
braided frock and high state of astonishment, with very 
large round eyes, open to their utmost width, was lifted 
over the seats — a process which occasioned a consider- 
able display of little pink legs — then came ma and pa, 
and then the eldest son, a boy of fourteen years old, who 
was evidently trying to look as if he did not belong to 
the family. 

The first five minutes were occupied in taking the 
shawls off the little girls, and adjusting the bows which 
ornamented their hair ; then it was providentially dis- 


ASTLEY’S. 


143 


covered that, one of the little boys was seated behind a 
pillar and could not see, so the governess was stuck be- 
hind the pillar, and the boy lifted into her place. Then 
pa drilled the boys, and directed the stowing away of 
their pocket-handkerchiefs ; and ma, having first nodded 
and winked to the governess to pull the girls’ frocks a 
little more off their shoulders, stood up to review the 
little troop — an inspection which appeared to terminate 
much to her own satisfaction, for she looked with a com- 
placent air at pa, who was standing up at the further 
end of the seat. Pa returned the glance, and blew his 
nose very emphatically ; and the poor governess peeped 
out from behind the pillar, and timidly tried to catch 
ma’s eye, with a look expressive of her high aduiiratiori 
of the whole family. Then two of the little boys who 
had been discussing the point whether Astley’s was more 
than twice as large as Drury Lane, agreed to refer it to 
George ” for his decision ; at which ‘‘ George,” who 
was no other than the young gentleman before noticed, 
waxed indignant, and remonstrated in no very gentle 
terms on the gross impropriety of having his name re- 
peated in so loud a voice at a public place, on which all 
the children laughed very heartily, and one of the little 
boys wound up by expressing his opinion, that George 
began to think himself quite a man now,” whereupon 
both pa and ma laughed too ; and George (who carried 
a dress cane and was cultivating whiskers) muttered that 
“ William always was encouraged in his impertinence ; ” 
and assumed a look of profound contempt, which lasted 
the whole evening. 

The play began, and the interest of the little boys 
knew no bounds. Pa was clearly interested too, although 
he very unsuccessfully endeavored to . look as if he wasn’t 


144 


SKETCHES BY BOZ. 


As for ma, she was perfectly overcome by the drollery 
of the principal comedian, and laughed till every one of 
the immense bows on her ample cap trembled, at which 
the governess peeped out from behind the pillar again, 
and whenever she could' catch ma’s eye, put her handker- 
chief to her mouth, and appeared, as in duty bound, to 
be in convulsions of laughter also. Then when the man 
in the splendid armor vowed to rescue the lady or perish 
in the attempt, the little boys applauded vehemently, 
especially one little fellow who was apparently on a visit 
to the family, and had been carrying on a child’s flirta- 
tion, the whole evening, with a small coquette of twelve 
years old, who looked like a model of her mamma on a 
reduced scale ; and who in common with the other little 
girls (who generally speaking have even more coquettish- 
ness about them than much older ones) looked very 
properly shocked, when the knight’s squire kissed the 
prince’s confidential chambermaid. 

When the scenes in the circle commenced, the children 
were more delighted than ever ; and the wish to see 
what was going forward, completely conquering pa’s dig- 
nity, he stood up in the box, and applauded as loudly as 
any of them. Between each feat of horsemanship, the 
governess leant across to ma, and retailed the clever 
remarks of the children on that which had preceded : 
and ma, in the openness of her heart, offered the govern- 
ess an acidulated drop, and the governess, gratified to 
be taken notice of, retired behind her pillar again with a 
brighter countenance : and the whole party seemed quite 
happy, except the exquisite in the back of the box, who, 
being too g.rand to take any interest in the children, and 
too insignificant to be taken notice of by anybody else, 
occupied himself, from time to time, in rubbing the place 


ASTLEY’S. 


145 


where the whiskers ought to be, and was completely alone 
in his glory. 

We defy any one who has been to Astley’s two or 
three times, and is consequently capable of appreciating 
the perseverance with which precisely the same jokes are 
repeated night after night, and season after season, not to 
be amused with one part of the performances at least — 
we mean the scenes in the circle. For ourself, we know 
that when the hoop, composed of jets of gas, is let down, 
the curtain drawn up for the convenience of the half- 
price on their ejectment from the ring, the orange-peel 
cleared away, and the sawdust shaken, with mathemati- 
cal precision, into a complete circle, we feel as muclT en- 
livened as the youngest child present ; and actually join 
in the laugh which follows tlie clown’s shrill shout of 
“ Here we are ! ” just for old acquaintance sake. Nor can 
we quite divest ourself of our old feeling of reverence 
for the riding-master, who follows the clown with a long 
whip in his hand, and bows to the audience with graceful 
dignity. He is none of your second-rate riding-masters 
in nankeen dressing-gowns, with brown frogs, but the 
regular gentleman-attendant on the principal riders, who 
always wears a military uniform with a table-cloth inside 
the breast of the coat, in which costume he forcibly 
reminds one of a fowl trussed for roasting. He is — but 
why should we attempt to describe that of which no de- 
scription can convey an adequate idea ? Everybody 
luiows the man, and everybody remembers his polished 
boots, his graceful demeanor, stiff, as some misjudging 
persons have in their jealousy considered it, and the 
splendid head of black hair, parted" high on the forehead, 
to impart to the countenance an appearance of deep 
thought and poetic melancholy. His soft and pleasing 

VOL. I. 10 


146 


SKETCHES BY BOZ. 


voice, too, is in perfect unison with his noble bearing, as 
he humors the clown by indulging in a little badinage ; 
and the striking recollection of his own dignity, with 
which he exclaims, “ Now, sir, if you please, inquire for 
Miss Woolford, sir,” can never be forgotten. The grace- 
ful air, too, with which he introduces Miss Woolford into 
the arena, and after assisting her to the saddle, follows 
her fairy courser round the circle, can never fail to create 
a deep impression in the bosom of every female servant 
present. 

When Miss Woolford, and the horse, and the orches- 
tra, all stop together to take breath, he urbanely takes 
part in some such dialogue as the following (commenced 
by the clown) : “ I say, sir ! ” — “ Well, sir ? ” (it’s always 
conducted in the politest manner.) — “ Did you ever hap- 
pen to hear I was in the army, sir ? ” — “ No, sir.” — “ Oh, 
yes, sir — I can go through my exercise, sir.” — “ Indeed, 
sir ! ” — ‘‘ Shall I do it now, sir ? ” — “ If you please, sir ; 
come, sir — make haste ” (a cut with the long whip, and 
“Ha’ done now- — I don’t like it,” from the clown). 
Here the clown throws himself on the ground, and goes 
through a variety of gymnastic convulsions, doubling 
himself up, and untying himself again, and making him- 
self look very like a man in the most hopeless extreme 
of human agony, to the vociferous delight of the gallery, 
until he is interrupted by a second cut from the long 
whip, and a request to see “ what Miss Woolford’s stop- 
ping for ? ” On which, to the inexpressible mirth of the 
gallery, he exclaims, “ Now, Miss Woolford, what can I 
come for to go, for to fetch, for to bring, for to carry, for 
to do, for you, ma’am^” On the lady’s announcing with 
a sweet smile that she wants the two flags, they are with 
sundry grimaces, procured and handed up ; the clown 


ASTLEY’S. 


147 


facetiously observing after the performance of the latter 
ceremony — “ He, he, ho ! I say, sir. Miss Woolford 
knows me ; she smiled at me.” Another cut from the 
whip, a burst from the orchestra, a start from the horse, 
and round goes Miss Woolford again on her graceful per- 
formance, to the delight of every member of the audience, 
young or old. The next pause affords an opportunity 
for similar witticisms, the only additional fun being that 
of the clown making ludicrous grimaces at the riding- 
master every time his back is turned ; and finally quitting 
the circle by jumping over his head, having previously 
directed his attention another way. 

Did any of our readers ever notice the class , of people, 
who hang about the stage-doors of our minor theatres 
in the daytime. You will rarely pass one of these en- 
trances without seeing a group of three or four men con- 
versing on the pavement, with an indescribable public- 
house-parlor swagger, and a kind of conscious air, peculiar 
to people of this description. They always seem to think 
they are exhibiting ; the lamps are ever before them. 
That young fellow in the faded brown coat, and very full 
light green trousers, pulls down the wristbands of his 
check shirt, as ostentatiously as if it were of the finest 
linen, and cocks the white hat of the summer-before-last 
as knowingly over his right eye, as if it were a purchase 
of yesterday. Look at the dirty white Berlin gloves, 
and the cheap silk-handkerchief stuck in the bosom of 
his threadbare coat. Is it possible to see him for an 
instant, and not come to the conclusion that he is the 
walking gentleman who wears a blue surtout, clean col- 
lar, and white trousers, for half an hour, and then shrinks 
into his worn-out scanty clothes : who has to boast night 
after night of his splendid fortune, with the painful con- 


148 


SKETCHES BY BOZ. 


sciousness of a pound a-week and his boots to find ; to 
talk of his father’s mansion in the country, with a dreary 
recollection of his own two-pair back, in the New Cut ; 
and to be envied and flattered as the favored lover of a 
rich heiress, remembering all the while that the ex- 
dancer at home is in the family way, and out of an en- 
gagement ? 

Next to him, perhaps, you will see a thin pale man, 
with a very long face, in a suit of shining black, though t- 
fully knocking that part of his boot which once had a 
heel, with an ash stick. He is the man who does the 
heavy business, such as prosy fathers, virtuous servants, 
curates, landlords, and so forth. 

By the way; talking of fathers, we should very much 
like to see some piece in which all the dramatis personce 
were orphans. Fathers are invariably great nuisances 
on the stage, and always have to give the hero or hero- 
ine a long explanation of what was done before the cur- 
tain rose, usually commencing with It is now nineteen 
years, my dear child, since your blessed mother (here 
the old villain’s voice falters) confided you to my charge. 
You were then an infant,” &c. &c. Or else they have to 
discover, all of a sudden, that somebody whom they have 
been in constant communication with, during three long 
acts, without the slightest suspicion, is their own child : 
in which case they exclaim, “ Ah ! what do I see ? This 
bracelet ! That smile ! These documents ! Those eyes ! 
Can I believe my senses ? — It must be ! — Yes — it is, il 
is my child ! ” — “ My father ! ” exclaims the child ; and 
they fall into each other’s arms, and look over each 
other’s shoulders, and the audience give three rounds of 
applause. 

To return from this digression, we were about to say, 


ASTLEY’S. 


149 


that these are the sort of people whom you see talking, 
and attitudinizing, outside the stage-doors of our minor 
theatres. At Astley’s they are always more numerous 
than at any other place. There is generally a groom or 
two, sitting on the window-sill, and two or three dirty 
shabby-genteel men in checked neckerchiefs, and sallow 
linen, lounging about, and carrying, perhaps, under one 
arm, a pair of stage shoes badly wrapped up in a piece 
of old newspaper. Some years ago we used to stand 
looking, open-mouthed, at these men, with a feeling of 
mysterious curiosity, the very recollection of which pro- 
vokes a smile at the moment we are writing. We could 
not believe, that the beings of light and elegance, in milk- 
white tunics, salmon-colored legs, and blue scarfs, who 
flitted on sleek cream-colored horses before our eyes at 
night, Avith all the aid of lights, music, and artificial flow- 
ers, could be the pale, dissipated-looking creatures Ave 
beheld by day. 

We can hardly believe it noAv. Of the loAver class of 
actors we have seen something, and it requires no great 
exercise of imagination to identify the walking gentle- 
man with the “ dirty swell,” the comic singer with the 
public-house chairman, or the leading tragedian with 
drunkenness and distress ; but these other men are mys- 
terious beings, nevei- seen out of tlie ring, never beheld 
but in the costume of gods and sylphs. With the excep- 
tion of Ducrow, who can scarcely be classed among them, 
Avho ever knew a rider at Astley’s, or saw him but on 
horseba(ik ? Can our friend in the military uniform, ever 
^p])ear in threadbare attire, or descend to the compara- 
tively un-AA^added costume of every-day life ? Impossi- 
ole ! We cannot — we Avill not — believe it. 


150 


SKETCHES BY BOZ. 


CHAPTER XIL 

GREENWICH FAIR. 

Ip the Parks be “ the lungs of London,” we wonder 
what Greenwich Fair is — a periodical breaking out, we 
suppose, a sort of spring-rash : a three days’ fever, which 
cools the blood for six months afterwards, and at the 
expiration of which London is restored to its old habits 
of plodding industry, as suddenly and completely as if 
nothing had ever happened to disturb them. 

In our earlier days, we were a constant frequenter of 
Greenwich Fair, for years. We have proceeded to, and 
returned from it, in almost every description of vehicle. 
We cannot conscientiously deny the charge of having 
once made the passage in a spring-van, accompanied by 
thirteen gentlemen, fourteen ladies, an unlimited number 
of children, and a barrel of beer ; and we have a vague 
recollection of having in later days, found ourself the 
eighth outside, on the top of a hackney-coach, at some- 
thing past four o’clock in the morning, with a rather con- 
fused idea of our own name, or place of residence. We 
have grown older since then, and quiet, and steady : 
liking nothing better than to spend our Easter, and all 
our other holidays, in some quiet nook, with people of 
wdiom we shall never tire ; but we think we still remem- 
ber something of Greenwich Fair, and of those who 
resort to it. 'At all events we will try. 

The road to Greenwich during the w'hole of Easter 
Monday, is in a state of perpetual bustle and noise. 


GREENWICH FAIR. 


151 


Cabs, hackney-coaches, ‘‘ shay ” carts, coal- wagons, stages, 
omnibuses, sociables, gigs, donkey-chaises — all crammed 
with people (for the question never is, what the horse 
can draw, but what the vehicle will hold), roll along at 
their utmost speed ; the dust flies in clouds, ginger-beer 
corks go off in volleys, the balcony of every public-house 
is crowded with, people, smoking and drinking, half the 
private houses are turned into tea-shops, fiddles are in 
great request, every little fruit-shop displays its stall of 
gilt gingerbread and penny toys ; turnpike men are in 
despair ; horses won’t go on, and wheels will come off ; la- 
dies in “carawans” scream with fright at every fresh con- 
cussion, and their admirers find it necessary to sit remark- 
ably close to them, by way of encouragement ; servants 
of all-work, who are not allowed to have followers, and 
have got a holiday for the day, make the most of their 
time with the faithful admirer who waits for a stolen 
interview at the corner of the street every night, when 
they go to fetch the beer — apprentices grow sentimen- 
tal, and straw-bonnet makers kind. Everybody is anx- 
ious to get on, and actuated by the common wish to be 
at the fair, or in the park, as soon as possible. 

Pedestrians linger in groups at the roadside, unable to 
resist the allurements of the stout proprietress of the 
“ Jack-in-the-box, three shies a penny,” or the more 
splendid offers of the man with three thimbles and a pea 
on a little round board, who astonishes the bewildered 
crowd with some such address as, “ Here’s the sort o’ 
game to make you laugh seven years arter you’re dead, 
and turn ev’ry air on your ed gray with delight ! Three 
thimbles and vun little pea — with a vun, two, three, 
and a two, three, vun : catch him who can, look on, keep 
your eyes open, and niver say die ! niver mind the 


152 


SKETCHES BY BOZ. 


change, and the expense : all fair and above board : them 
as don’t play can’t vin, and luck attend the ryal sports- 
man ! Bet any gen’lm’n any sum of money, from harf- 
a-crown up to a suverin, as he doesn’t name the thimble 
as kivers the pea ! ” Here some greenhorn whispers his 
friend that he distinctly saw the pea roll under the middle 
thimble — an impression Avhich is immediately confirmed 
by a gentleman in top-boots, who is standing by, and 
who, in a low tone, regrets his own inability to bet in 
consequence of having unfortunately left his purse at 
home, but strongly urges the stranger not to neglect such 
a golden opportunity. The “plant” is successful, the 
bet is made, the stranger of course loses ; and the gen- 
tleman with the thimble consoles him, as he pockets the 
money, with an assurance that it’s “ all the fortin of war ! 
this time I vin, next time you vin : niver mind the loss 
of two bob and a bender ! Do it up in a small parcel, 
and break out in a fresh })lace. Here’s the sort o’ game,” 
&c. — and the eloquent harangue, with such variations 
as the speaker’s exuberant fancy suggests, is again re- 
peated to the gaping crowd, reinforced by the accession 
of several new comers. 

The chief place of resort in the daytime, after the 
public-houses, is the park, in which the principal amuse- 
ment is to drag young ladies up the steep hill which 
leads to the observatory, and then drag them down again, 
at the very top of their speed, greatly to the derange- 
ment of their curls and bonnet-caps, and much to the 
edification of lookers-on from below. “ Kiss in the 
Bing,” and “ Threading my Grandmother’s Needle,” too, 
are sports which receive their full share of patronage. 
Love-sick swains, under the influence of gin-and-water, 
Hnd the tender passion, become violently affectionate : 


GREENWICH FAIR. 


153 


and the fair objects of their regard enhance the value of 
stolen kisses, by a vast deal of struggling, and holding 
down of heads, and cries of “ Oh ! Ha’ done, then, 
George — Oh, do tickle him for me, Mary — Well, I 
never ! ” and similar Lucretian ejaculations. Little old 
men and women, with a small basket under one arm, and 
a wine-glass, without a foot, in the other hand, tender “ a 
drop o’ the right sort ” to the different groups ; and young 
ladies, who are persuaded to indulge in a drop of the 
aforesaid right sort, display a pleasing degree of reluct- 
ance to taste it, and cough afterwards with great pro- 
priety. 

The old pensioners, who, for the moderate charge of a 
penny, exhibit the mast-house, the Thames and shipping, 
the place where the men used to hang in chains, and 
other interesting sights, through a telescope, are ..asked 
questions about objects within the range of the glass, 
which it would puzzle a Solomon to answer ; and re- 
quested to find out particular houses in particular streets, 
which it would have been a task of some difficulty for 
Mr. Horner (not the young gentleman who ate mince- 
pies with his thumb, but the man of Colosseum notoriety) 
to discover. Here and there, where some three or four 
couple are sitting on the grass together, you will see a 
sun-burnt woman in a red cloak “ telling fortunes ” and 
prophesying husbands, which it requires no extraordinar}'” 
observation to describe, for the originals are before her. 
Thereupon the lady concerned laughs and blushes, and 
ultimately buries her face in an imitation cambric hand- 
kerchief, and the gentleman described looks extremely 
foolish, and squeezes her hand, and fees the gypsy lib- 
erally; and the gypsy goes away, perfectly satisfied 
herself, and leaving those behind her perfectly satisfied 


X54 


SKETCHES BY BOZ. 


also : and the prophecy, like many other prophecies of 
greater importance, fulfils itself in time. 

But it gi’ows dark : the crowd has gradually dispersed, 
and only a few stragglers are left behind. The light in 
the direction of the church shows that the fair is illumi- 
nated ; and the distant noise proves it to be filling fast. 
The spot, which half an hour ago was ringing with the 
sbouts of boisterous mirth, is as calm and quiet as if 
nothing could ever disturb its serenity ; the fine old trees, 
the majestic building at their feet, with the noble river 
beyond, glistening in tlie moonlight, appear in all theii* 
beauty, and under their most favorable aspect ; the voices 
of the boys, singing their evening hymn, are borne gently 
on the air : and the humblest mechanic who has been lin- 
gering on the grass so pleasant to the feet that beat the 
same .dull round from week to week in the paved streets 
of London, feels proud to think as he surveys the scene 
before him, that he belongs to the country which has 
selected such a spot as a retreat for its oldest and best 
defenders in the decline of their lives. 

Five minutes’ walking brings you to the fair ; a scene 
calculated to awaken very different feelings. The en- 
trance is occupied on either side by the venders of gin- 
gerbread and toys ; th.e stalls are gayly lighted up, the 
most attractive goods profusely disposed, and unbonneted 
young ladies, in their zeal for the interest of their em- 
})loyers, seize you by the coat, and use all the blandish- 
ments of ‘‘ Do, dear ” — “ There’s a love ” — “ Don’t be 
cross, now,” &c., to induce you to purchase half a pound 
of the real spice nuts, of which the majority of the regu- 
lar fair-goers carry a pound or two as a present supply, 
tied up m a cotton pocket-handkerchief. Occasionally , 
you pass a deal table, on which are exposed pen’orths of 


GREENWICH FAIR. 


155 


pickled salmon (fennel included), in little white saucers . 
oysters, with shells as large as cheese-plates, and divers 
specimens of a species of snail (wilks^ we think they are 
called), floating in a somewhat bilious-looking green 
liquid. Cigars, too, are in great demand ; gentlemen 
must smoke, of course, and here they are, two a penny, 
in a regular authentic cigar-box, with a lighted tallow 
candle in the centre. 

Imagine yourself in an extremely dense crowd, which 
swings you to and fro, and in and out, and every way but 
the right one ; add to this the screams of women, the 
shouts of boys, the clanging of gongs, the firing of pistols, 
the ringing of bells, the bellowings of speaking-trumpets, 
the squeaking of penny dittos, the noise of a dozen bands, 
with three drums in each, all playing different tunes at 
the same time, the hallooing of showmen, and an occa- 
sional roar from the wild-beast shows ; and you are in 
the very centre and heart of the fair. 

This immense booth, with the large stage in front, so 
brightly illuminated with variegated lamps, and pots of 
burning fat, is “ Richardson’s,” where you have a melo- 
drama (with three murders and a ghost), a pantomime, a 
comic song, an overture, and some incidental music, all 
done in five-and-twenty minutes. 

The company are now promenading outside in all the 
dignity of wigs, spangles, red-ochre, and whitening. See 
with what a ferocious a^r the gentleman who personates 
the Mexican chief, paces up and down, and with what an 
eye of calm dignity the principal tragedian gazes on the 
crowd below, or converses confidentially with the harle- 
quin ! The four clowns, who are engaged in a mock 
broadsword combat, may be all very well for the low- 
minded holiday-makers : hut these are the people for the 


156 


SKETCHES BY BOZ. 


reflective portion of the community. They look so noble 
in those Roman dresses, with their yellow legs and arms, 
long black curly heads, bushy eyebrows, and scowl ex- 
pressive of assassination, and vengeance, and everything 
else that is grand and solemn. Then, the ladies — were 
there ever such innocent and awful-looking beings ; as 
they walk up and down the platforms in twos and threes, 
with their arms round each other’s waists, or leaning for 
support on one of those majestic men ! Their spangled 
muslin dresses and blue satin shoes and sandals (a leetU 
the worse for wear) are the admiration of all beholders ; 
and the playful manner in which they check the advances 
of the clown, is perfectly enchanting. 

Just a-going to begin ! Pray come for’erd, come 
for’erd,” exclaims the man in the countryman’s dress, 
for the seventieth time : and people force their way up 
the steps in crowds. The band suddenly strikes up, the 
harlequin and columbine set the example, reels are 
formed in less than no time, the Roman heroes place 
their arms a-kimbo, and dance with considerable agility ; 
and the leading tragic actress, and the gentleman who 
enacts the “ swell ” in the pantomime, foot it to perfection. 
“ All in to begin,” shouts the manager, when no more 
people can be induced to “ come for’erd,” and away rush 
the leading members of the company to do the dreadful 
in the first piece. 

A change of performance takes, place every day during 
the fair, but the story of the tragedy is always pretty 
much the same. There is a rightful heir, who loves a 
young lady, and is beloved by her ; and a wrongful heir, 
who loves her too, and isn’t beloved by her; and the 
wrongful heir gets hold of the rightful heir, and throws 
him into a dungeon, just to kill him off when convenient, 


GREENWICH FAIR. 


157 


for which purpose he hires a couple of assassins — a good 
one and a bad one — who, the moment they are left 
alone, get up a little murder on their own account, the 
good^ one killing the bad one, and the bad one wounding 
the good one. Then the rightful heir is discovered in 
prison, carefully holding a long chain in his hands, and 
seated despondingly in a large arm-chair ; and the young 
lady comes in to two bars of soft music, and embraces the 
rightful heir; and then the wrongful heir comes in to 
two bars of quick music (technically called “a hurry'’), 
and goes on in the most shocking manner, throwing the 
young lady about, as if she was nobody, and calling the 
rightful heir “ Ar-recreant — ar-wretch ! ” in a very loud 
voice, which answers the double purpose of displaying 
his passion, and preventing the sound being deadened by 
the sawdust. The interest becomes intense ; the wrongful 
heir draws his sword, and rushes on the rightful heir ; a 
blue smoke is seen, a gong is heard, and a tall white 
figure (who has been all this time behind the arm-chair, 
covered over with a table-cloth), slowly rises to the tune 
of “ Oft in the stilly night.” This is no other than the 
ghost of the rightful heir’s father, who was killed by the 
wrongful heir's father, at sight of which the wrongful heir 
becomes apoplectic, and is literally struck “ all of a heap,” 
the stage not being large enough to admit of his falling 
down at full length. Then the good assassin staggei-s 
in, and says he was hired in conjunction with the bad 
assassin, by the wrongful heir, to kill the rightful heir ; 
and he’s killed a good many people in his time, but he’s 
very sorry for it, and won’t do so any more — a promise 
which he immediately redeems, by dying off-hand, with- 
out any nonsense about it. Then the riglitful heir throws 
down his chain ; and tlien two men, a sailor, and a young 


158 


SKETCHES BY BOZ. 


woman (the tenantry of the rightful heir) come in, and 
the ghost makes dumb motions to them, which they, by 
supernatural interference, understand — for no one else 
can ; and the ghost (who can’t do anything without, blue 
fire) blesses the rightful heir and the young lady, by half 
suffocating them with smoke : and then a muffin-bell 
rings, and the curtain drops. 

The exhibitions next in popularity to these itinerant 
theatres are tlie travelling menageries, or, to speak more 
intelligibly, the “ Wild-beast shows,” where a military 
band in beef-eaters’ costume, with leopard-skin caps, 
play incessantly ; and where large highly-colored repre- 
sentations of tigers tearing men’s heads open, and a lion 
being burnt with red-hot irons to induce him to drop 
his victim, are hung up outside, by way of attracting 
visitors. 

The principal officer at these places is generally a very 
tall, hoarse man, in a scarlet coat, with a cane in his hand, 
with which he occasionally raps the pictures we have just 
noticed, by way of illustrating his description — some- 
thing in this way. “ Here, here, here ; the lion, the 
lion (tap), exactly as he is represented on the canvas 
outside (three taps) : no waiting, remember ; no decep- 
tion. The fe-ro-cious lion (tap, tap) who bit off the gen- 
tleman’s head last Cambervel vos a twelvemonth ago, and 
has killed on the awerage three keepei'S a-year ever since 
he arrived at matoority. No extra charge on this account 
recollect ; the price of admission is only sixpence.” This 
address never fails to produce a consideration sensation, 
and sixpences flow into the treasury with wonderful 
rapidity. 

The dwarfs are also objects of great curiosity, and as 
^ dwaiT, a giantess, a living skeleton, a wild Indian, “ a 


GREENWICH FAIR. 


159 


young lady of singular beauty, with perfectly white hair 
and pink eyes,” and two or three other natural curiosities, 
are usually exhibited together for the small charge of a 
penny, they attract very numerous audiences. The best 
thing about a dwarf is, that he has always a little box, 
about two feet six inches high, into which, by long prac- 
tice, he can just manage to get, by doubling himself up 
like a boot-jack ; this box is painted outside like a six- 
roomed house, and as the crowd see him ring a bell, or 
fire a pistol out of the first-floor window, they verily be- 
lieve that it is his ordinary town residence, divided like 
other mansions into drawing-rooms, dining-parlor, and 
bed-chambers. Shut up in this case, the unfortunate 
little object is brought out to delight the throng by hold- 
ing a facetious dialogue with the proprietor : in the course 
of which, the dwarf (who is always particularly drunk) 
pledges himself to sing a comic song inside, and pays 
various compliments to the ladies, which induce them to 
“ come for’erd ” with great alacrity. As a giant is not so 
easily moved, a pair of indescribables of most capacious 
dimensions, and a huge shoe, are usually brought out, 
into which two or three stout men get all at once, to the 
enthusiastic delight of the crowd, who are quite satisfied 
with the solemn assurance that these habiliments form 
part of the giant’s every-day costume. 

The grandest and most numerously frequented booth 
in the whole fair, however, is The Crown and Anchor ” 
— a temporary ball-room — we forget how many hun- 
dred feet long, the price of admission to which is one 
shilling. Immediately on your right hand as you enter, 
after paying your money, is a refreshment place, at which 
cold beef, roast and boiled, French rolls, stout, \\’ine, 
tongue, ham, even fowls, if we recollect right, are dis- 


160 


SKETCHES BY BOZ. 


played in tempting array. There is a raised orchestra, 
and the place is boarded all the way down, in patches, 
just wide enough for a country-dance. 

There is no master of the ceremonies in this artificial 
Eden — all is primitive, unreserved, and unstudied. 
The dust is blinding, the heat insupportable, the com- 
pany somewhat noisy, and in the highest s[)irits possible : 
the ladies, in the height of their innocent animation, 
dancing in the gentlemen’s hats, and the gentlemen 
promenading ‘Hhe gay and festive scene” in the ladies’ 
bonnets, or with the more expensive ornaments of false 
noses, and low-crowned, tinder-box looking hats : play- 
ing children’s drums, and accompanied by ladies on the 
penny trumpet. 

The noise of these various instruments, the orchestra, 
the shouting, the scratchers,” and the dancing, is per- 
fectly bewildering. The dancing itself, beggars descrip- 
tion — every figure lasts about an hour, and the ladies 
bounce up and down the middle, with a degree of spirit 
which is quite indescribable. As to the gentlemen, they 
stamp their feet against the ground, every time “ hands 
four round ” begins, go down the middle and up again, 
with cigars in their mouths, and silk handkerchiefs in 
their hands, and whirl their partners round, nothing loth, 
scrambling and falling, and embracing, and knocking up 
against the other couples, until they are fairly tired out, 
and can move no longer. The same scene is repeated 
again and again (slightly varied by an occasional “ row ”) 
until a late hour at night : and a great many clerks 
and ’prentices find themselves next morning with aching 
heads, empty pockets, damaged hats, and a very imper- 
fect recollection of how it was, they did not get home. 


PRIVATE THEATRES. 


161 


CHAPTER Xin. 

PRIVATE THEATRES. 

‘‘Richard the Third. — Duke of Glo’ster, 21 ,; 
Earl of Richmond, 1/. ; Duke of Buckingham, 15^. ; 
Catesby, 12s. ; Tressell, 10s. M , ; Lord Stanley, 
5s.; Lord Mayor of London, 2s. 

Such are the written placards wafered up in the gen- 
tlemen’s dressing-room, or the green-room (where there 
is any), at a private theatre ; and such are the sums 
extracted from the shop-till, or overcharged in the office 
expenditure, by the donkeys who are prevailed upon to 
pay for permission to exhibit their lamentable ignorance 
and boobyism on the stage of a private theatre. This 
they do, in proportion to the scope afforded by the char- 
acter for the display of their imbecility. For instance, 
the Duke of Glo’ster is well worth two pounds, because 
he has it all to himself ; he must wear a real sword, and 
what is better still, he must draw it, several times in the 
course of the piece. The soliloquies alone are well 
worth fifteen shillings ; then there is the stabbing King 
Henry — decidedly cheap at three-and-sixpence, that’s 
eighteen-and-sixpence ; bullying the coffin-bearers — say 
eighteen-pence, though it’s worth much more — that’s a 
pound. Then the love scene with Lady Ann, and the 
bustle of the fourth act, can’t be dear at ten shillings 
more — that’s only one pound ten, including the “ off 
with his head ! ” — which is sure to bring down the 
applause, and it is very easy to do — “ Orf with his ed ” 

VOL. I. 11 


162 


SKETCHES BY BOZ. 


(very quick and loud ; — then slow and sneeringly) — 
“ So much for Bu-u-u-uckingham ! ” Lay the emphasis 
on the “uck; ” get yourself gradually into a corner, and 
work with your right hand, while you’re saying it, as if 
you were feeling your way, and it’s sure to do. The 
tent scene is confessedly worth half a sovereign, and so 
you have the fightin’ gratis, and everybody knows what 
an effect may be produced by a good combat. One — 
two — three — four — over ; then, one — two — three 

— four — under ; then thrust ; then dodge and slide 
about ; then fall down on one knee ; then fight upon it ; 
and then get up again and stagger. You may keep on 
doing this, as long as it seems to take — say ten minutes 

— and then fall down (backwards, if you can manage it 
without hurting yourself), and die game: nothing like 
it for producing an effect. They always do it at Astley’s 
and Sadler’s Wells, and if they don’t know how to do 
this sort of thing, who in the world does ? A small 
child, or a female in white, increases the interest of a 
combat materially — indeed, we are not aware that a 
regular legitimate terrific broadsword combat could be 
done without ; but it would be rather difficult, and some- 
what unusual, to introduce this effect in the last scene 
of Richard the Third, so the only thing to be done, is, 
just to make the best of a bad bargain, and be as long 
as possible fighting it out. 

The principal patrons of private theatres are dirty 
boys, low copying-clerks in attorneys’ offices, capacious- 
headed youths from city counting-houses, Jews whose 
business, as lenders of fancy dresses, is a sure passport 
to the amateur stage, shop-boys who now and then mis- 
take their master’s money for their own ; and a choice 
miscellany of idle vagabonds. The proprietor of a pii- 


PRIVATE THEATRES. 


168 


vate theatre may be an ex-scene-painter, a low coffee- 
house-keeper, a disappointed eighth-rate actor, a retired 
.Smuggler, or an imcertificated bankrupt. The theatre 
itself may be in Catherine Street, Strand, the purlieus 
of the city, the neighborliood of Gray’s Inn Lane, or the 
vicinity of Sadler’s Wells ; or it may, perhaps, form the 
chief nuisance of some shabby street, on the Surrey side 
of Waterloo Bridge. . 

The lady performers pay nothing for their characters, 
and it is needless to add, are usually selected from one 
class of society; the audiences are necessarily of much 
the same character as the performers, who receive, in 
return for their contributions to the management, ticketg 
to the amount of the money they pay. 

All the minor theatres in London, especially the lowest, 
constitute the centre of a little stage-struck neighborhood. 
Each of them has an audience exclusively its own ; and 
at any you will see dropping into the pit at half-price, or 
swaggering into the back of a box, if the price of admis- 
sion be a reduced one, divers boys of from fifteen to 
twenty-one years of age, who throw back their coat and 
turn up their wristbands, after the portraits of Count 
D’Orsay, hum tunes and whistle when the curtain is 
down, by way of persuading the people near them, that 
they are not at all anxious to have it up again, and speak 
familiarly of the inferior performers as Bill 8uch-a-one, 
and Ned So-and-so, or tell each other how a new piece 
called The Unknown Bandit of the Invisible Cavern^ is 
in rehearsal ; how Mister Palmer is to play The Un- 
known Bandit ; how Charley ScaiTon is to take the part 
of an English sailor, and fight a broadsword combat with 
six unknown bandits at one and the same time (one the- 
atrical sailor is always equal to half a dozen men at 


164 


" SKETCHES BY BOZ. 


least) ; how Mr. Palmer and Charley Scarton are to go 
through a double hornpipe in fetters in the second act ; 
how the interior of the invisible cavern is to occupy the 
whole extent of the stage ; and other town-su^’prising 
theatrical announcements. These gentlemen are the 
amateurs — the Richards, Shylochs, Beverleys, and Otheh 
los — the Young Dorntons^ Rovers, Captain Absolutes, 
and Charles Surfaces — of a private theatre. 

See them at the neighboring public-house or the the- 
atrical coffee-shop ! They are the kings of the place, 
supposing no real performers to be present ; and roll 
about, hats on one side, and arms a-kimbo, as if they 
had actually come into possession of eighteen shillings 
a week, and a share of a ticket night. If one of them 
does but know an Astley’s supernumerary he is a happy 
fellow. The mingled air of envy and admiration with 
which his companions will regard him, as he converses 
familiarly wdth some mouldy-looking man in a fancy 
neckerchief, whose partially corked eyebrows, and half- 
rouged face, testify to the fact of his having just left the 
stage or the circle, sufficiently shows in wdiat higli admi- 
ration these public characters are held. 

With the double \iew of guarding against the dis- 
covery of friends or employers, and enhancing the inter- 
est of an assumed character, by attaching a high-sound- 
ing name to its representative, these, geniuses assume 
hctitioiis names, which are not the least amusing part of 
the play-bill of a private theatre. Belville, Melville, 
Treville, Berkeley, Randolph, Byron, St. Clair, and so 
forth, are among the humblest; and the less imposing 
titles of Jenkins, Walker, Thomson, Barker, Solomons, 
&c., are completely laid aside. There is something im- 
posing in this, and it is an excellent apology for shabbi- 


PRIVATE THEATRES. 


16b 


ness into the bargain. A shrunken, faded coat, a de- 
cayed hat, a patched and soiled pair of trousers — nay 
even a very dirty shirt (and none of these appearances 
are very uncommon among the members of the corps 
dramatique)^ may be worn for the purpose of disguise, 
and to prevent the remotest chance of recognition. Tlien 
it prevents any troublesome inquiries or explanations 
about employment and pursuits ; everybody is a gentle- 
man at large for the occasion, and there are none of those 
unpleasant and unnecessary distinctions to which even 
genius must occasionally succumb elsewhere. As to the 
ladies (God bless them), they are quite above any formal 
absurdities ; the mere circumstance of your being behind 
the scenes is a sufficient introduction to their society — 
for of course they know that none but strictly respec- 
table persons would be admitted into that close fellow- 
ship with tliem which acting engenders. They place 
implicit reliance on the manager, no doubt ; and as to the 
manager, he is ell affability when he knows you well, — • 
or, in other words, when he has pocketed your money 
once, and entertains confident hopes of doing so again. 

A quarter before eight — there will be a full house to- 
night — six parties in the boxes, already; four little boys 
and a woman in the pit ; and two fiddles and a flute in 
the orchestra ; who have got through five overtures since 
seven o’clock (tlie liour fixed for the commencement of 
the performances), and have just begun the sixth. There 
will be plenty of it, though, when it does begin, for there 
is enough in the bill to last six hours at least. 

That gentleman in the Avhite hat and checked shirt, 
broNvn coat and brass buttons, lounging behind the stage- 
^iox on the O. P. side, is Mr. Horatio St. Julian, alias 
»em Larkins. His line is genteel comedy — his father’s. 


166 


SKETCHES BY BOZ. 


coal and potato. He does Alfred Highflier in the last 
piece, and very well he’ll do it — at the price. The 
party of gentlemen in the opposite box, to whom he has 
just nodded, are friends and supporters of Mr. Beverley 
(otherwise Loggins), the Macbeth of the night. You 
observe their attempts to appear easy and gentlemanly, 
each member of the party, with his feet cocked upon the 
cushion in front of the box 1 They let them do these 
things here, upon the same humane principle which per- 
mits poor people’s children to knock double knocks at 
the door of an empty house — because they can’t do it 
anywhere else. The two stout men in the centre box, 
with an opera-glass ostentatiously placed before them, 
are friends of the proprietor — opulent country mana- 
gers, as he confidentially informs every individual among 
the crew behind the curtain — opulent country managers 
looking out for recruits ; a representation which Mr. 
Nathan, the dresser, who is in the manager’s interest, and 
lias just arrived with tlie costumes, offers to confirm upon 
oath if required — corroborative evidence, however, is 
quite unnecessary, for the gulls believe it at once. 

The stout Jewess, wdio has just entered, is the mother 
of the pale bony little girl, with the necklace of blue 
glass beads sitting by her ; she is being brought up to 
“ the profession.” Pantomime is to be her line, and she 
is coming out to-night, in a hornpipe after the tragedy. 
The short thin man beside Mr. St. Julian, whose white 
face is so deeply seared with the small-pox, and whose 
dirty shirt-front is inlaid with open-work, and embossed 
with coral studs like lady-birds, is the low comedian and 
comic singer of the establishment. The remainder of the 
audience — a tolerably numerous one by this time — are 
a motley group of dupes and blackguards. 


PRIVATE THEATRES. 


167 


The footlights have just made, their appearance : the 
wicks of the six little oil lamps round the only tier of 
boxes are being turned up, and the additional light thus 
afforded serves to show the presence of dirt, and absence 
of paint, which forms a prominent feature in the au- 
dience part of the house. As these preparations, how- 
ever, announce the speedy commencement of the play, 
let us take a peep “behind,” previous to the ring- 
ing up. 

The little narrow passages beneath the stage are 
neither especially clean nor too brilliantly lighted ; and 
the absence of any flooring, together wdth the damp mil- 
dewy smell which pervades the place, does not conduce 
in any great degree to their comfortable appearance. 
Don’t fall over this plate-basket — it’s one of the “prop- 
erties” — the caldron for the witches’ cave ; and the three 
uncouth-looking figures, with broken clothes-props in their 
hands, who are drinking gin and water out of a pint pot, 
are the weird sisters. This miserable room, lighted by 
candles in’ sconces placed at lengthened intervals round 
the wmll, Ls the dressing-room, common to the gentlemen 
peiformers, and the square hole in the ceiling is the trap- 
door of the stage above. You will observe that the ceil- 
ing is ornamented with the beams that support the boards, 
and tastefully hung wdth cobwebs. 

The characters in the tragedy are all dressed, and their 
owm clothes are scattered in hurried confusion over the 
wooden dresser wdiich surrounds the room. That snuff- 
shop- looking figure, in front of the glass, is Banquo : and 
the young lady with the liberal display of legs, who is 
kindly painting his face with a hare’s foot, is dressed for 
Fieaace, The large woman, wlio is consulting the stage 
directions in Cumberland’s edition of Macheth, is the 


168 


SKETCHES BY BOZ. 


Lady Macheth of the night ; she is always selected to 
play the part, because she is tall and stout, and looh a 
little like Mi*s. Siddons — at a considerable distance. 
That stupid-looking milksop, with light hair and bow 

— a kihd of man whom you can warrant town-made 
— is fresh caught ; he plays Malcolm to-night, just to 
accustom himself to an audience. He will get on better 
by degrees ; he will play Othello in a month, and in a 
month more, will very probably be apprehended on a 
charge of embezzlement. The black-eyed female with 
whom he is talking so earnestly, is dressed for the “ gen- 
tlewoman.” It is her first appearance too — in that char- 
acter. The boy of fourteen, who is having his eyebrows 
smeared with soap and whitening, is Duncan^ King of 
Scotland ; and the two dirty men with the corked coun- 
tenances, in very old green tunics, and dirty drab boots, 
are the “ army.” 

Look sharp below there, gents,” exclaims the dresser, 
a red-headed and red-whiskered Jew, calling through the 
trap, “they’re a-going to ring up. The flute says he’ll 
be blowed if he plays any more, and they’re getting pre- 
'^cious noisy in front.” A general rush immediately takes 
place to the half dozen little steep steps leading to the 
stage, and the heterogeneous group are soon assembled 
at the side scenes, in breathless anxiety and motley con- 
fusion. 

“ Now,” cries the manager, consulting the written list 
which hangs behind the first T. S. wing, Scene 1, op('n 
counfry — lamps down — thunder and lightning — all 
I'eady, White ? ” [This is addressed to one of the army. j 
“ All ready.” — “ Very well. Scene 2, front chamber. Is 
the front chamber down?” — “Yes.” — “Very well.” — ■ 
“Jones” [to the other army who is up in the flies]. 


VAUXHALL GARDENS BY DAY. 


1G9 


“ Hallo ! “ Wind up the open country when we ring 

up.” — “ I’ll take care.” — “ Scene 3, back perspective 
with practical bridge. Bridge ready, White ? Got the 
tressels there ? ” — “ All right.” 

“ Very well. Clear the stage,” cries the manager, 
hastily packing every member of the company into the 
little space there is between the wings and the wall, 
and one wing and another. “ Places, places. Now 
then. Witches — Duncan — Malcolm — bleeding officer 
— where’s the bleeding officer ? ” — “ Here ! ” replies the 
officer, who has been rose-pinking for the character. 
“ Get ready, then ; now. White, ring the second music- 
bell.” The actors who are to be discovered, are hastily 
arranged, and the actors who are not to be discovered 
place themselves, in their anxiety to peep at the house, 
just where the whole audience c^n see them. The bell 
rings, and the orchestra, in acknowledgment of the call, 
play thi-ee distinct chords. The bell rings — the tragedy 
(!) opens — and our description closes. 


CHAPTER XIV. 

VAUXHALL GARDENS BY DAY. 

Thkrp: was a time when if a man ventured to wonder 
how Vauxhall Gardens would look by day, he was hailed 
with a shout of derision at the absurdity of the idea. 
Vauxhall by daylight ! A porter-pot without porter, the 
House of Commons without the Speaker, a gas-lamp with- 
out the gas — pooh, nonsense, the thing was not to be 


170 


SKETCHES BY BOZ. 


thought of. It was rumored, too, in those times, that Vaux- 
hall Gardens by day, were the scene of secret and hidden 
experiments ; that there, carvei^s were exercised in the 
mystic art of cutting a moderate-sized ham into slices 
thin enough to pave the whole of the grounds ; that be- 
neath the shade of the tall trees, studious men were con 
stantly engaged in chemical experiments, with the view 
of discovering how much water a bowl of negus could 
possibly bear ; and that in some retired nooks, appropri- 
ated to the study of ornithology, other sage and learned 
men were, by a process known only to themselves, inces- 
santly employed in reducing fowls to a mere combination 
of skin and bone. 

Vague rumors of this kind, together with many others 
of a similar nature, cast over Yauxhall Gardens an air 
of deep mystery ; and as there is a great deal in the mys- 
terious, there is no doubt that to a good many people, at 
all events, the pleasure they afforded was not a little 
enhanced by this very circumstance. 

Of this class of people we confess to having made one. 
We loved to wander among these illuminated groves, 
thinking of the patient and laborious researches which 
had been carried on there during the day, and witnessing 
their results in the suppers which were served up beneath 
the light of lamps and to the sound of music, at night. 
The temples and saloons .and cosmoramas and fountains 
glittered and sparkled before our eyes ; the beauty of the 
lady singers and the elegant deportment of the gentle- 
men, captivated our liearts ; a few hundred thousand of 
additional lamps dazzled our senses ; a bowl or two 
of reeking punch bewildered our brains ; and we were- 
happy. 

In an evil hour, the proprietors of Vanxhall Gardens 


VAUXHALL GARDENS BY DAY. 


171 


took to opening them by day. We regretted this, as 
rudely and harshly disturbing that veil of mystery which 
had hung about the property for many years, and which 
none but the noonday sun, and the late Mr. Simpson, had 
ever penetrated. We shrunk from going ; at this mo- 
ment we scarcely know why. Perhaps a morbid con- 
sciousness of approaching disappointment — perhaps a 
fatal presentiment — perhaps the weather ; whatever it 
was, we did not go until the second or third announce- 
ment of a race between two balloons tempted us, and we 
went. 

We paid our shilling at the gate, and then we saw for 
the first time, that the entrance, if there had ever been 
any magic about it at all, was now decidedly disenchanted, 
being, in fact, nothing more nor less than a combination 
of very roughly-painted boards and sawdust. We 
glanced at the orchestra and supper-room as we hurried 
past — we just recognized them, and that was all. We 
bent our steps to the firework-ground ; there, at least, we 
should not be disappointed. We reached it, and stood 
rooted to the spot with mortification and astonishment. 
That the Moorish tower — that wooden shed with a door 
in the centre, and daubs of crimson and yellow all round, 
like a gigantic watch-case ! That the place where night 
after night we had beheld the undaunted Mr. Blackmore 
make his terrific ascent, surrounded by fiames of fire, 
and peals of artillery, and where the white garments of 
Madame Somebody (we forget even her name now), who 
nobly devoted her life to the manufacture of fireworks, 
had so often been seen fluttering in the wind, as she 
called up a red, blue, or party-colored liglit to illumine 
her temple ! That the — but at this moment the bell 
rung ; the people scampered away, pell-mell, to the spot 


172 


SKETCHES BY BOZ. 


from whence the sound proceeded ; and we, from tho 
mere force of habit, found ourself running among the 
first, as if for very life. 

It was for the concert in the orchestra. A small party 
of dismal men in cocked hats were “ executing ’* the over- 
ture to Tancredi^ and a numerous assemblage of ladies 
and gentlemen, with their families, had rushed from their 
half-emptied stout mugs in the supper boxes, and crowded 
to the spot. Intense was the low murmur of admiration 
when a particularly small gentleman, in a dress coat, led 
on a particularly tall lady in a blue sarcenet pelisse and 
bonnet of the same, ornamented with large white feathers, 
and forthwith commenced a plaintive duet. 

We knew the small gentleman well ; we had seen a 
lithographed semblance of him, on many a piece of 
music, with his mouth wide open as if in the act of sing- 
ing ; a wine-glass in his hand ; and a table with two decan- 
ters and four pine-apples on it in the background. The 
tall lady, too, we had gazed on, lost in raptures of admi- 
ration, many and many a time — how different people do 
look by daylight, and without punch, to be sure ! It was 
a beautiful duet : first the small gentleman asked a ques- 
tion, and then the tall lady answered it ; then the small 
gentleman and the tall lady sang together most melo- 
diously ; then the small gentleman went through a little 
piece of vehemence by himself, and got very tenor indeed, 
in the excitement of liis feelings, to wliich the tall lady 
responded in a similar manner ; then the small gentleman 
had a shake or two, after which the tall lady had the 
same, and then they both merged imperceptibly into the 
original air : and the band wound themselves up to a 
pitch of fury, and the small gentleman handed the tall 
lady out, and the applause was rapturous. 


VAUXHALL GARDENS BY DAY. 


173 


The comic singer, however, was the especial favorite ; 
we really thought that a gentleman, with his dinner in a 
pocket-handkerchief, who stood near us, would have 
fainted with excess of joy. A marvellously facetious 
gentleman that comic singer is ; his distinguishing char- 
acteristics are, a wig approaching to tlie flaxen, and an 
aged countenance, and he bears the name of one of the 
English counties, if we recollect right. He sang a very 
good song about the seven ages, the first half-liour of 
which afforded the assembly the purest delight ; of the 
rest we can make no report, as we did not stay to hear 
any more. 

We walked about, and met with a disappointment at 
every turn ; our favorite views were mere patches of 
paint ; the fountain that had sparkled so showily by 
lamp-light, presented very much the appearance of a 
water-pipe that had burst ; all the ornaments were dingy, 
and all the walks gloomy. There was a spectral attempt 
at rope-dancing in the little open theatre. The sun shone 
upon the spangled dresses of the performers, and their 
evolutions were about as inspirating and appropriate as 
a country-dance in a family-vault. So we retraced our 
steps to the firework-ground, and mingled with the little 
crowd of people who were contemplating Mr. Green. 

Some half-do>:en men were restraining the impetuosity 
of one of the balloons, which was completely filled, and 
had the car already attached ; and as rumors had gone 
abroad that a Lord was “ going up,” the crowd were more 
than usually anxious and talkative. There was one little 
man in faded black, with a dirty face and a rusty black 
neckerchief with a red border, tied in a narrow wusp 
round his neck, who entered into conversation with every- 


174 


SKETCHES BY BOZ. 


body, and had something to say upon every remark that 
was made within his liearing. lie was standing with his 
arms folded, staring up at the balloon, and every now and 
then vented his feelings of reverence for the aeronaut, 
by saying, as he looked round to catch somebody’s eye. 

He’s a rum ’un is Green ; think o’ this here being 
up'ards of his two hundredth ascent; ecod the man as is 
ekal to Green never had the toothache yet, nor won’t 
have within this hundred year, and that's all about it. 
When you meets with real talent, and native, too, encour- 
age it, that’s what I say ; ” and when he had delivered 
himself to this effect, he would fold his arms with more 
determination than ever, and stare at the balloon with a 
sort of admiring defiance of any other man alive, beyond 
himself and Green, that impressed the crowd with the 
opinion that he was an oracle. 

“ Ah, you’re very right, sir,” said another gentleman, 
with his wife, and children, and mother, and wife’s sister, 
and a host of female friends, in all the gentility of white 
pocket-handkerchiefs, frills, and spencers, “ Mr. Green is 
a steady hand, sir, and there’s no fear about him.” 

“ Fear!” said the little man; “isn’t it a lovely thing 
to see him and his wife a-going up in one balloon, and 
his own son and Ids wife a-jostling up against them in 
another, and all of them going twenty or thirty mile in 
three hours or so, and then coining back in pochayses ? 
I don’t know where this here science is to stop, mind 
you ; that’s what bothers me.” 

Here there was a considerable talking among the 
females in the spencers. 

“ What’s the ladies a-laughing at, sir ? ” inquired the 
little man, condescendingly. 


VAUXHALL GARDENS BY DAY. 


175 


‘‘ It’s only my sister Mary,” said one of the girls, “as 
pays she hopes his lordship won’t be frightened when 
he’s in the car, and want to come out again.” 

“ Make yourself easy about that there, my dear,” re- 
})lied the little man. “ If he was so much as to move a 
inch without leave, Green would jist fetch him a crack 
over the head with the telescope, as would send him into 
the bottom of the basket in no time, and stun him till 
they come down again.” 

“ Would he though ? ” inquired the other man. 

“Yes, would he,” replied the little one, “and think 
nothing of it, neither, if he was the king himself. Green’s 
presence of mind is' wonderful.” 

Just at this moment all eyes were directed to the prep- 
arations which were l eing made for starting. The car 
was attached to the second balloon, the two were brought 
pretty close together, and a military band commenced 
playing, with a zeal and fervor which would render the 
most timid man in existence but too happy to accept any 
means of quitting that pai'ticular spot of earth on which 
they were stationed. Then Mr. Green, sen., and his 
noble companion entered one car, and Mr. Green, jun., 
and his companion the other ; and then the balloons went 
up, and the aerial travellers stood up, and the crowd out- 
side roared with delight, and the two gentlemen who had 
never ascended before, tried to wave their flags, as if they 
were not nervous, but held on very fast all the while ; 
and the balloons were wafted gently away, our little 
friend solemnly protesting, long after they were reduced 
to mere specks in the air, that he could still distinguish 
the white hat of Mr. Green. The gardens disgorged 
their multitudes, boys ran up and down screaming “ bal- 
loon ; ” and in all the crowded thoroughfares people 


176 


SKETCHES BY BOZ. 


rushed out of their shops into the middle of the road, 
and having stared up in the air at two little black objects 
till they almost dislocated their necks, walked slowly in 
again, perfectly satisfied. 

The next day there was a grand account of the ascent 
in the morning papers, and the public were informed how 
it was the finest day but four in Mr. Green’s remem- 
brance ; how they retained sight of the earth till they 
lost it behind the clouds ; and how the reflection of the 
balloon on the undulating masses of vapor was gorgeously 
picturesque ; together with a little science about the 
refraction of the sun’s rays, and some mysterious hints 
respecting atmospheric heat and eddying currents of air. 

There was also an interesting account how a man in a 
boat was distinctly heard by Mr. Green, jun., to exclaim, 
“ My eye ! ” which Mr. Green, jun., attributed to his 
voice rising to the balloon, and the sound being thrown 
back from its surh)ce into the car ; and the whole con- 
cluded with a slight allusion to another ascent next 
Wednesday, all of which was very instructive and very 
amusing, as our readers will see if they look to the pa- 
pers. If we have forgotten to. mention the date, they 
have only to wait till next summer, and take the account 
of the first ascent, and it will answer the purpose equally 
well. 


CHAPTER XV. 

EARLY COACHES. 

We have often wondered how many months’ incessant 
travelling in a post-chaise, it would take to kill a man ; 


EARLY COACHES. 


177 


and wondering by analogy, we should very much like to 
know how many months of constant travelling in a suc- 
cession of early coaches, an unfortunate mortal could 
endure. Breaking a man alive upon the wheel, would 
be nothing to breaking his rest, his peace, his heart — 
everything but his fast — upon four; and the punishment 
of Ixion (the only practical person, by the by, who has 
discovered the secret of the perpetual motion) would 
sink into utter insignificance before the one we have sug- 
gested. If we had been a pow^erful churchman in those 
good times when blood was shed as freely as water and 
men were mowed down like grass, in the sacred cause of 
religion, we would have lain by very quietly till we got 
hold of some especially obstinate miscreant, who posi- 
tively refused to be converted to our faith, and then we 
would have booked him for an inside place in a small 
coach, which travelled day and night : and securing the 
remainder of the places for stout men with a slight ten- 
dency to coughing and spitting, we would have started 
him forth on his last travels : leaving him mercilessly to 
all the tortures which the waiters, landlords, coachmen, 
guards, boots, chambermaids, and other familiars on his 
line of road, might think proper to inflict. 

Who has not experienced the miseries inevitably con- 
sequent upon a summons to undertake a hasty journey ? 
You receive an intimation from your place of business — 
wherever that may be, or whatever you may be — that 
it will be necessary to leave town without delay. You 
and your family are forthwith thrown into a state of 
tremendous excitement ; an express is immediately de- 
spatched to the washerwoman’s ; everybody is in a 
bustle ; and you, yourself, with a feeling of dignity which 
you cannot altogether conceal, sally forth to the booking- 

VOL. I. 12 


178 


SKETCHES BY BOZ. 


office to secure your place. Here a painful conscious- 
ness of your own unimportance first rushes on your mind 
— the people are as cool and collected as if nobody were 
going out of town, or as if a journey of a hundred odd 
miles were a mere nothing. You enter a mouldy-looking 
room, ornamented with large posting-bills ; the greater 
part of the place enclosed behind a huge lumbering rougli 
counter, and fitted up with recesses that look like the 
dens of the smaller animals in a travelling menagerie, 
without the bars. Some half-dozen people are “ book- 
ing” brown-paper parcels, which one of the clerks flings 
into the aforesaid recesses with an air of recklessness 
which you, remembering the new carpet-bag you bought 
in the morning, feel considerably annoyed at ; porters look- 
ing like so many Atlases, keep rushing in and out, with 
large packages on their shoulders ; and while you are 
waiting to make the necessary inquiries, you wonder 
what on earth the booking-office clerks can have been 
before they were booking-office clerks ; one of them with 
his pen behind his ear, and his hands behind him, is 
standing in front of the fire, like a full-length portrait of 
Napoleon ; the other with his hat half off his head, en- 
ters the passengers’ names in the books with a coolness 
which is inexpressibly provoking ; and the villain whis- 
tles — actually whistles — while a man asks him what 
the fare is outside — all the way to Holyhead ! — in 
frosty weather too ? They are clearly an isolated race, 
evidently possessing no sympathies or feelings in common 
with the rest of mankind. Your turn comes at last, and 
having paid the fare, you tremblingly inquire — “ What 
time will it be necessary for me to be here in the morn- 
ing ? ” — “ Six o’clock,” replies the whistler, carelessly 
pitching the sovereign you have just parted with, into a 


EARLY COACHES. 


179 


W'ooden bowl on the desk. Rather before than arter,” 
adds the man with the semi-roasted unmentionables, with 
just as much ease and complacency as if the whole world 
got out of bed at five. You turn into the street, ruminat- 
ing as you bend your steps homewards on the extent to 
which men become hardened in cruelty, by custom. 

If there be one thing in existence more miserable than 
another, it most unquestionably is the being compelled to 
rise by candle-light. If you ever doubted the fact, you 
are painfully convinced of your error, on the morning of 
your departure. You left strict orders, overnight, to be 
called at half-past four, and you have done nothing all 
night but doze for five minutes at a time, and start up 
suddenly from a terrific dream of a large, church-clock 
with the small hand running round, with astonishing 
rapidity, to every figure on the dial-plate. At last, 
completely exhausted, you fall gradually into a refresh- 
ing sleep — your thoughts grow confused — the stage- 
coaches, which have been “going off” before your eyes 
all night, become less and less distinct, until they go off 
altogether ; one moment you are driving with all the skill 
and smartness of an experienced whip — the next you 
are exhibiting, a la Ducrow, on the off leader ; anon 
you are closely muffled up, inside, and have just recog- 
nized in the person of the guard an • old schoolfellow, 
whose funeral, even in your dream, you remember to 
have attended eighteen years ago. At last you fall into 
a state of complete oblivion, from which you are aroused, 
as if into a new state of existence, by a singular illusion. 
You are apprenticed to a trunk-maker ; how, or why, or 
when, or wherefore, you don’t take the trouble to inquire ; 
but there you are, pasting the lining in the lid of a port- 
manteau. Confound that other apprentice in the back 


180 


SKETCHES BY BOZ. 


shop, how he is hammering ! — rap, rap, rap — what an 
industrious fellow he must be ! you have heard him at 
work for half an hour past, and he has been hammering 
incessantly the whole time. Rap, rap, rap, again — he’s 
talking now — what’s that he said ? Five o’clock ! You 
make a violent exertion, and start up in bed. The vision 
is at once dispelled ; the trunk-maker’s shop is your own 
bedroom, and the other apprentice your shivering ser- 
vant, who has been vainly endeavoring to wake you for 
the last quarter of an hour, at the imminent risk of 
breaking either his own knuckles or the panels of the 
door. 

You proceed to dress yourself, with all possible de- 
spatch. The flaring flat candle with the long snuff, gives 
light enough to show that the things you want are not 
where they ought to be, and you undergo a trifling delay 
in consequence of having carefully packed up one of 
your boots in your over anxiety of the preceding night. 
You soon complete your toilet, however, for you are not 
particular on such an occasion, and you shaved yesterday 
evening ; so, mounting your Petersham great-coat, and 
green travelling-shawl, and grasping your carpet-bag in 
your right hand, you walk lightly down-stairs, lest you 
should awaken any of the family, and after pausing in 
the common sitting-room for one moment, just to have 
a cup of coffee (the said common sitting-room looking 
remarkably comfortable, with everything out of its place, 
and strewed with the crumbs of last night’s supper), you 
undo the chain and bolts of the street-door, and find 
yourself fairly in the street. 

A thaw, by all that is miserable ! The frost is com- 
pletely broken up. You look down the long perspective 
of Oxford Street, the gas-lights mournfully reflected on 


EARLY COACHES. 


181 


the wet pavement, and can discern no speck in the road 
to encourage the belief that there is a cab or a coach to 
be had — the very coachmen have gone home in despair. 
The cold sleet is drizzling down with that gentle regu- 
larity, whicli betokens a duration of four-and-twenty 
hours at least ; the damp hangs upon the house-tops, and 
lamp-posts, and clings to you like an invisible cloak. 
The water is “ coming in ” in every area, the pipes have 
burst, the water-butts are running over ; the kennels 
seem to be doing matches against time, pump-handles 
descend of their own accord, horses in market-carts fall 
down, and there’s no one to help them up again, police- 
men look as if they had been carefully sprinkled with 
powdered glass ; here and there a milk-woman trudges 
slowly along, with a bit of list round each foot to keep 
her from slipping ; boys who “ don’t sleep in the house,” 
and are not allowed much sleep out of it, can’t wake 
their masters by thundering at the shop-door, and cry 
with the cold — - the compound of ice, snow, and water 
on the pavement, is a couple of inches thick — nobody 
ventures to walk fast to keep himself warm, and nobody 
could succeed in keeping himself warm if he did. 

It strikes a quarter past five as you trudge down 
Waterloo Place on your way to the Golden Cross, and 
you discover, for the first time, that you were called 
about an hour too early. You have not time to go back ; 
there is no place open to go into, and you have, there- 
fore, no resource but to go forward, which you do, feel- 
ing remarkably satisfied with yourself and everything 
about you. You arrive at the office, and look wistfully 
up the yard for the Birmingham High-flier, which, for 
aught you can see, may have flown away altogether, for 
no preparations appear to bo on foot for the departure 


182 


SKETCHES BY BOZ. 


of any vehicle in the shape of a coach. You wander 
into the booking-office, which with the gas-lights and 
blazing fire, looks quite comfortable by contrast — that 
is to say, if any place can look comfortable at half-past 
five on a winter’s morning. There stands the identical 
book-keeper in the same position as if he had not moved 
since you saw him yesterday. As he informs you, that 
the coach is up the yard, and will be brought round in 
about a quarter of an hour, you leave your bag, and 
repair to “ The Tap ” — not with any absurd idea of 
warming yourself, because you feel such a result to be 
utterly hopeless, but for the purpose of procuring some 
hot brandy-and-water, which you do, — when the kettle 
boils ! an event which occurs exactly two minutes and a 
half before the time fixed for the starting of the coach. 

The first stroke of six peals from St. Martin’s church 
steeple, just as you take the first sip of the boiling 
liquid. You find yourself at the booking-office in two 
seconds, and the tap-waiter finds himself much comforted 
by your brandy-and-water, in about the same period. 
The coach is out ; the horses are in, and the guard and 
two or three porters are stowing the luggage away, and 
running up the steps of the booking-office, and down 
the steps of the booking-office, with breathless rapidity. 
The place, which a few minutes ago, was so still and 
quiet, is now all bustle ; the early venders of the morn- 
ing papers have arrived, and you are assailed on all sides 
with shouts of “ Times, gen’lm’n. Times, Here’s Chron 
— Chron — Chron,” ^''Herald, ma’am,” ‘‘Highly interest- 
ing murder, gen’lm’n,” “ Curious case o’ breach o’ prom- 
ise, ladies.” The inside passengers are already in their 
dens, and the outsides, with the exception of yourself, 
are pacing up and down the pavement to keep them- 


EARLY COACHES. 


183 


selves warm ; they consist of two young men with very 
long hair, to which the sleet has communicated the 
nppearance of crystallized rats’ tails ; one thin young 
woman cold and peevish, one old gentleman ditto ditto, 
and something in a cloak and cap, intended to represent 
a military officer ; every member of the party with a 
large stiff shawl over his chin, looking exactly as if he 
were playing a set of Pan’s pipes. 

“ Talie off the cloths. Bob,” says the coachman, who 
now appears for the first time, in a rough blue great-coat, 
of which the buttons behind are so far apart, that you 
can’t see them both at the same time. “ Now, gen’lm’n,” 
cries the guard, with the way-bill in his hand. “ Five 
minutes behind time already!” Up jump the passen- 
gers — the two young men smoking like lime-kilns, and 
the old gentleman grumbling audibly. The thin young 
woman is got upon the roof, by dint of a great deal of 
pulling, and pushing, and helping, and trouble, and she 
repays it by expressing her solemn conviction that she 
will never be able to get down again. 

“ All right,” sings out the guard at last, jumping up 
as the coach starts, and blowing his horn directly after- 
wards, in proof of the soundness of his wind. “ Let 
’em go, Harry, give ’em their heads,” cries the coach- 
man — and off we start as briskly as if the morning 
were “ all right,” as well as the coach : and looking for- 
ward as anxiously to the termination of our journey, as 
we fear our readers will have done, long since, to the 
conclusion of our paper. 


184 


SKETCHES BY BOZ. 


CHAPTER XVL 

OMNIBUSES. 

It is very generally allowed that public conveyances 
aflPord an extensive field for amusement and observation. 
Of all the public conveyances that have been constructed 
since the days of the Ark — we think that is the earliest 
on record — to the present time, commend us to an 
omnibus. A long stage is not to be despised, but there 
you have only six insides, and the chances are, that 
the same people go all the way with you — there is no 
change, no variety. Besides, after the first twelve hours 
or so, people get cross and sleepy, and when you have 
seen a man in his nightcap, you lose all respect for him ; 
at least that is the case with us. Then on smooth roads 
people frequently get prosy, and tell long stories, and 
even those who don’t talk may have very unpleasant 
predilections. We once travelled four hundred miles, 
inside a stage-coach, with a stout man, who had a glass 
of rum-and-water warm, handed in at the window at 
every place where we changed horses. This was decid- 
edly unpleasant. We have also travelled occasionally, 
with a small boy of a pale aspect, with light hair, and 
no perceptible neck, coming up to town from school 
under the protection oF the guard, and directed to be 
left at the Cross Keys till called for. This is, perhaps, 
even worse than rum-and-water in a close atmosphere. 
Then there is tlie whole train of evils consequent on a 
change of the coachman ; and the misery of the discov- 


OMNIBUSES. 


185 


ery — which the guard is sure to make the moment you 
begin to doze — that he wants a brown-paper parcel, 
which he distinctly remembers to have deposited under 
the seat on which you are reposing. A great deal of 
bustle and groping takes place, and when you are thor- 
oughly awakened, and severely cramped, by holding 
your legs up by an almost supernatural exertion, while 
he is looking behind them, it suddenly occurs to him 
that he put it in the fore-boot. Bang goes the door ; 
the parcel is immediately found ; off starts the coach 
again ; and the guard plays the key-bugle as loud as he 
can play it, as if in mockery of your wretchedness. 

Now, you meet with none of these afflictions in an 
omnibus; sameness there can never be. The passen- 
gers change as often in the course of one journey as the 
figures in a kaleidoscope, and though not so glittering, 
are far more amusing. We believe there is no instance 
on record, of a man’s having gone to sleep in one of 
these vehicles. As to long stories, would any man ven- 
ture to tell a long story in an omnibus ? and even if he 
did, where would be the harm ? nobody could possibly 
hear what he was talking about. Again ; children, 
though occasionally, are not often to be found in an 
omnibus ; and even when they are, if the vehicle be 
full, as is generally the case, somebody sits upon them, 
and we are unconscious of their presence. Yes, after 
mature reflection, and considerable experience, w^e are 
decidedly of opinion, that of all known vehicles, from 
the glass coach in which we were taken to be christened, 
to that sombre caravan in which we must one day make 
our last earthly journey, there is nothing like an omni- 
bus. 

We will back the machine in which we make our 


186 


SKETCHES BY BOZ. 


daily peregrination from the top of Oxford Street to 
the city, against any “ buss ” on the road, whether it be 
for the gaudiness of its exterior, the perfect simplicity 
of its interior, or the native coolness of its cad. This 
young gentleman is a singular instance of self-devotion ; 
his somewhat intemperate zeal on behalf of his employ- 
ers, is constantly getting him into trouble, and occasion- 
ally into the house of correction. He is no sooner 
emancipated, however, than he resumes the- duties of 
his profession with unabated ardor. His principal dis- 
tinction is his activity. His great boast is, ‘‘ that he can 
chuck an old gen’lm’n into the buss, shut him in, and 
rattle off, afore he knows where it’s agoing too ” — a 
feat which he frequently performs, to the infinite amuse- 
ment of every one but the old gentleman concerned, 
who, somehow or other, never can see the joke of the 
thing. 

We are not aware that it has ever been precisely as- 
certained, how many passengers our omnibus will contain. 
The impression on the cad’s mind, evidently is, that it is 
amply sufficient for the accommodation of any number 
of persons that can be enticed into it. “ Any room ? ” 
cries a very hot pedestrian. “ Plenty o’ room, sir,” re- 
plies the conductor, gradually opening the door, and not 
disclosing the real state of the case until the wretched 
man is on the steps. Where ? ” inquires the entrapped 
individual, with an attempt to back out again. “ Either 
side, sir,” rejoins the cad, shoving him in, and slamming 
the door. “ All right. Bill.” Retreat is impossible ; the 
new-comer rolls about, till he falls down somewhere, and 
there he stops. 

As we get into the city a little before ten, four or five 
of our party are regular passengers. We always take 


OMNIBUSES. 


187 


them up at the same places, and they generally occupy 
the same seats ; they are always dressed in the same 
manner, and invariably discuss the same topics — the 
increasing rapidity of cabs, and the disregard of moral 
obligations eyinced by omnibus men. There is a little 
testy old man, with a powdered head, wlio always sits on 
the right-hand side of the door as you enter, with his 
hands folded on the top of his umbrella. He is ex- 
tremely impatient, and sits there for the purpose of keep- 
ing a sharp eye on the cad, with whom he generally holds 
a running dialogue. He is very officious in helping peo- 
ple in and out, and always volunteers to give the cad a 
poke with his umbrella, when any one wants to alight. 
He usually recommends ladies to have sixpence ready, 
to prevent delay ; and if anybody puts a window down, 
that he can reach, he immediately puts it up again. 

“ Now, what are you stopping for ? ” says the little old 
man every morning, the moment there is the slightest in- 
dication of “ pulling up ” at the corner of Regent Street, 
when some such dialogue as the following takes place 
between him and the cad ; — 

“ What are you stopping for ? ” 

Here the cad whistles and affects not to hear the 
question. 

“ I say [a poke], what are you stopping for ? ” 

“ For passengers, sir. Ba — nk. — Ty.’* 

‘‘ I know you’re stopping for passengers ; but you’ve 
no. business to do so. Why are you stopping?” 

“ Vy, sir, that’s a difficult question. I think it is be 
cause we prefer stopping here to going on.” 

“ Now mind,” exclaims the little old man, with great 
vehemence, “ I’ll pull you up to-morrow ; I’ve often 
threatened to do it ; now I will.” 


188 


skp:tches by boz. 


" Thankee, sir,” replies the cad, touching his hat with 
a mock expression of gratitude ; — “ werry much obliged 
to you indeed, sir.” Here the young men in the omnibus 
laugh very heartily, and the old gentleman gets very red 
in the face, and seems highly exasperated. . 

The stout gentleman in the white neckcloth, at the 
other end of the vehicle, looks very prophetic, and says 
that something must shortly be done with these fellows, 
or there’s no saying where all this will end ; and the 
shabby-genteel man with the green bag, expresses his 
entire concurrence in the opinion, as he has done regu- 
larly every morning for the last six months. 

A second omnibus now comes up, and stops imme- 
diately behind us. Another old gentleman elevates his 
cane in the air, and runs with all his might, towards our 
omnibus ; we watch his progress with great interest ; the 
door is opened to receive him, he suddenly disappears — 
he has been spirited away by the opposition. Hereupon 
the driver of the opposition taunts our people with his 
having “ regularly done ’em out of that old swell,” and 
the voice of tlie “ old swell ” is heard, vainly protesting 
against this unlawful detention. We rattle off, the other 
omnibus rattles after us, and every time we stop to take 
up a passenger, they stop to take him too ; sometimes we 
get him ; sometimes they get him ; but whoever don’t 
get him, say they ought to have had him, and the cads 
of the respective vehicles abuse one another accordingly. 

As we arrive in the vicinity of Lincoln’s Inn Fields, 
Bedford Row, and other legal haunts, we drop a great 
many of our original passengers, and take up fresh ones, 
who meet with a very sulky reception. Jt is rather re- 
markable that the people already in an omnibus, always 
look at new-comers, as if they entertained some unde- 


THE LAST CAB-DKIVER. 


189 


fined idea that they have no business to come in at all. 
We are quite persuaded the little old man has some 
notion of this kind, and that he considers their entry as 
a sort of negative impertinence. 

Conversation is now entirely dropped ; each person 
gazes vacantly through the window in front of him, and 
everybody thinks that his opposite neighbor is staring at 
him. If one man gets out at Shoe Lane, and another at 
the corner of Farringdon Street, the little old gentleman 
grumbles, and suggests to the latter, that if he had got 
out at Shoe Lane too, he would have saved them the 
delay of another stoppage ; whereupon the young men 
laugh again, and the old gentleman looks very solemn, 
and says nothing more till he gets to the Bank, when he 
trots off as fast as he can, leaving us to do the same, and 
to wish, as we walk away, that we could impart to others 
any portion of the amusement we have gained for our- 
selves. 


CHAPTER XVII. 

THE LAST CAll-DRIVER AND THE FIRST OMNIBUS CAB. 

Of all the cabriolet-drivers whom we ever had the 
honor and gratification of knowing by sight — and our 
acquaintance in this way has been most extensive — 
there is one who made an impression on our mind which 
can never be effaced, and who awakened in our bosom a 
feeling of admiration and respect, which we entertain a 
fatal presentiment will never be called forth again by any 
human being. He was a man of most simple and pre- 


190 


SKETCHES BY BOZ. 


possessing appearance. He was a brown-whiskered, 
white-hatted, no-coated cabman ; his nose was generally 
red, and his bright blue eye not unfrequently stood out in 
bold relief against a black border of artificial workman- 
ship ; his boots were of the Wellington form, pulled up 
to meet his corduroy knee-smalls, or at least to approach 
as near them as their dimensions would admit of ; and 
his neck was usually garnished with a bright yellow 
handkerchief. In summer he carried in his mouth a 
flower ; in winter, a straw — slight, but to a contempla- 
tive mind, certain indications of a love of nature, and a 
taste for botany. 

His cabriolet was gorgeously painted — a bright red ; 
and wherever we went, City or West End, Paddington or 
Holloway, North, East, West, or South, there was the 
red cab, bumping up against the posts at the street-cor- 
ners, and turning in and out, among hackney-coaches, and 
drays, and carts, and wagons, and omnibuses, and con- 
triving by some strange means or other, to get out of 
places which no other vehicle but the red cab could ever 
by any possibility have contrived to get into at all. Our 
fondness for that red cab was unbounded. How we should 
have liked to see it in the circle at Astley’s ! Our life 
upon it, that it should have performed such evolutions as 
would have put the whole company to shame — Indian 
chiefs, knights, Swiss peasants, and all. 

Some people object to the exertion of getting into cabs, 
and others object \o the difficulty of getting out of them ; 
we think both these are objections which take their rise 
in perverse and ill-conditioned minds. The getting into 
a cab is a very pretty and graceful process, which, when 
well performed, is essentially melodramatic. First, there 
is the expressive pantomime of every one of the eighteen 


THE LAST CAB-DRIVER. 


191 


cabmen on the stand, the moment you raise your eyes 
from the ground. Then there is your own pantomime in 
reply — quite a little ballet. Four cabs immediately 
leave the stand, for your especial accommodation ; and 
the evolutions of the animals who draw them, are beauti- 
ful in the extreme, as they grate the wheels of the cabs 
against the curb-stones, and sport playfully in the kennel. 
You single out a particular cab, and dart swiftly towards 
it. One bound, and you are on the first step ; turn your 
body lightly round to the right, and you are on the sec- 
ond ; bend gracefully beneath the reins, working round 
to the left at the same time, and you are in the cab. 
There is no difficulty in finding a seat ; the apron knocks 
you comfortably into it at once, and off* you go. 

The getting out of a cab, is, perhaps, rather more com- 
plicated in its theory, and a shade more difficult in its 
execution. We have studied the subject a great deal, 
and we think the best way is, to throw yourself out, and 
trust to chance for alighting on your feet. If you make 
the driver alight first, and then throw yourself upon him, 
you will find that he breaks your fall materially. In the 
event of your contemplating an offer of eightpence, on 
no account make the tender, or show the money, until you 
are safely on the pavement. It is very bad policy attempt- 
ing to save the fourpence. You are very much in the 
power of a cabman, and he considers it a kind of fee not 
to do you any wilful damage. Any instruction, however, 
in the art of getting out of a cab, is wholly unnecessary 
if you are going any distance, because the probability i-, 
that you will be shot lightly out before you have com- 
pleted the third mile. 

We are not aware of any instance on record in which 
a cab-horse has performed three consecutive miles with- 


192 


SKETCHES BY BOZ. 


out going down once. What of that ? It is all excite- 
ment. And in these days of derangement of the ner- 
vous system and universal lassitude, people are content 
to pay handsomely for excitement ; where can it be pro- 
cured at a cheaper rate ? 

But to return to the red cab ; it was omnipresent. 
You had but to walk down Holborn, or Fleet Street, or 
any of the principal thoroughfares in which there is a 
great deal of traffic, and judge for yourself. You had 
hardly turned into the street, when you saw a trunk or 
two, lying, on the ground : an uprooted post, a hat-box, a 
portmanteau, and a carpet-bag, strewed about in a very 
picturesque manner : a horse in a cab standing by, look- 
ing about him with great unconcern ; and a crowd, shout- 
ing and screaming with delight, cooling their flushed 
faces against the glass windows of a chemist’s shop. — 
“ What’s the matter here, can you tell me ? ” — “ O’ny a 
cab, sir.” — “Anybody hurt, do you know?” — “O’ny 
the fare, sir. I see him a-turnin’ the corner, and I ses to 
another gen’lm’n, ‘ that’s a reg’lar little oss that, and he’s 
.a-comin’ along rayther sweet, a’n’t he?’ — ‘He just is,’ 
ses the other gen’lm’n, ven bump they comes agin the 
post, and out flies the fare like ‘bricks.” Need we say it 
was the red cab ; or that the gentleman with the straw in 
his mouth, who emerged so coolly from the chemist’s 
shop and philosophically climbing into the little dickey, 
started off at full gallop, was the red cab’s licensed 
driver ? 

The ubiquity of this red cab, and the influence it ex- 
ercised over the risible muscles of justice itself, was per- 
fectly astonishing. You walked into the justice-room of 
the Mansion-house: the wdiole court resounded wdth 
merriment. The Lord Mayor threw himself back 


. THE LAST CAB-DRIVER. 193 

in his chair, in a state of frantic delight at his own 
joke ; every vein in Mr. Hobler’s countenance was 
swollen with laughter, partly at the Lord Mayor’s 
facetiousness, but more at his own ; the constables 
and police-officers were (as in duty bound) in ecsta- 
sies at Mr. Hobler and the Lord Mayor combined ; 
and the very paupers, glancing respectfully at the 
beadle’s countenance, tried to smile, as even he relaxed. 
A tall, weazen-faced man, with an impediment in his 
speech, would be endeavoring to state a case of impo- 
sition against the red cab’s driver ; and the red cab’s 
driver, and the Lord Mayor, and Mr. Hobler, would be 
having a little fun among themselves, to the inordinate 
delight of everybody but the complainant. In the end, 
justice would be so tickled with the red-cab-driver’s 
native humor, that the fine would be mitigated, and he 
would go away full gallop, in the red cab, to impose on 
somebody else without loss of time. 

The driver of the red cab, confident in the strength of 
his own moral principles, like many other philosophers, 
was wont to set the feelings and opinions of society 
at complete defiance. Generally speaking, perhaps, he 
would as soon carry a fare safely to his destination, as he 
would upset him — sooner, perhaps, because in that case 
he not only got the money, but had the additional amuse- 
ment of running a longer heat against some smart rival. 
But society made war upon him in the shape of penal- 
ties, and he must make war upon society in his own way. 
This was the reasoning of the red-cab-driver. So, he 
bestowed a searching look upon the fare, as he put his 
hand in his waistcoat-pocket, when he had gone half the 
mile, to get the money ready ; and if he brought forth 
eightpence, out he went. 

von. I. 13 


194 


SKETCHES BY BOZ. 


The last time we saw our friend was one wet evening 
in Tottenham Court Eoad, when he was engaged in a 
very warm and somewhat personal altercation with a 
loquacious little gentleman in a green coat. Poor fellow ! 
there were great excuses to be made for him : he had 
not received above eighteenpence more than his fare, and 
consequently labored under a great deal of very natural 
indignation. The dispute had attained a pretty consider- 
able height, when at l^st the loquacious little gentleman, 
making a mental calculation of the distance, and finding 
that he had already paid more than he ought, avowed his 
unalterable determination to ‘‘pull up” the cabman in 
the morning. 

“ Now, just mark this, young man,” said the little gen- 
tleman, “ I’ll pull you up to-morrow morning.” 

“ No ! will you though ? ” said our friend with a sneer. 

“ I will,” replied the little gentleman, “ mark my 
words, that’s all. If I live till to-morrow morning, you 
shall repent this.” 

There was a steadiness of purpose, and indignation of 
speech, about the little gentleman, as he took an angry 
pinch of snuff, after this last declaration, which made a 
visible impression on the mind of the red-cab-driver. 
He appeared to hesitate for an instant. It was only for 
an instant ; his resolve was soon taken. 

“ You’ll pull me up, will you ? ” said our friend. 

“ I will,” rejoined the little gentleman, with even 
greater vehemence than before. 

“ Very well,” said our friend, tucking up his shirt- 
sleeves very calmly. “ There’ll be three veeks for that. 
Wery good ; that’ll bring me up to the middle o’ next 
month. Three veeks more would carry me on to my 
birthday, and then I’ve got ten pound to draw. I may 


THE LAST CAB-DUIVER. 


195 


as well get board, lodgin’, and washin’, till then, out of 
the county, as pay for it myself; consequently here 
goes ! ” 

So, without more ado, the red - cab - driver knocked 
the little gentleman down, and then called the police to 
take himself into custody, with all the civility, in the 
world. 

A story is nothing without the sequel ; and therefore 
we may state, that to our certain knowledge, the board, 
lodging, and washing, were all provided in due course. 
We happen to know the fact, for it came to our knowl- 
edge, thus : We went over the House of Correction 
for the county of Middlesex shortly after, to witness the 
operation of the silent system ; and looked on all the 
‘‘ wheels ” with the greatest anxiety, in search of our 
long-lost friend. He was nowhere to be seen, however, 
and we began to think that the little gentleman in the 
green coat must have relented, when as we were travers- 
ing the kitchen-garden, which lies in a sequestered part 
of the prison, we were startled by hearing a voice, which 
apparently proceeded from the wall, pouring forth its 
soul in the plaintive air of “ all round my hat,” which 
was then just beginning to form a recognized portion of 
our national music. 

We started. — ‘‘ What voice is that? ” said we. 

The Governor shook his head. 

Sad fellow,” he replied, “ very sad. He positively 
refused to work on the wheel ; so, after many trials, I 
was compelled to order him into solitary confinement. 
He says he likes it very much though, and I am afraid 
he does, for he lies on his back on the floor, and sings 
comic songs all day ! ” 

vShall we add that our heart had not decei\ cd us ; and 


196 


SKETCHES BY B02 


that the comic singer was no other than our eagerly 
sought friend, the red-cab-driver ? 

We have never seen him since, but we have strong 
reason to suspect that this noble individual was a distant 
relative of a waterman of our acquaintance, who, on one 
occasion, when we were passing the coach-stand over 
which he presides, after standing very quietly to see a 
tall man struggle into a cab, ran up very briskly when it 
was all over (as his brethren invariably do), and, touch- 
ing his hat, asked, as a matter of course, for “ a copper 
for the waterman.” Now, the fare was by no means a 
handsome man ; and, waxing very indignant at the de- 
mand, he replied - — “ Money ! What for ? Coming up 
and looking at me, I suppose?” — “Yell, sir,” rejoined 
the waterman, with a smile of immovable complacency, 
^‘‘Tha£s worth twopence.” 

This identical waterman afterwards attained a very 
prominent station in society ; and as we know something 
of his life, and have often thought of telling wdiat we do 
know, perhaps we shall never have a better opportunity 
than the present. 

Mr. William Barker, then, for that was the gentle- 
man’s name, Mr. William Barker was bom but wliy 

need we relate where Mr. William Barker was born, or 
when? Why sci-utinize the entries in parochial ledgers, 
or seek to penetrate the Lucinian mysteries of lying-in 
hospitals ? Mr. Willhim Barker was born, or he had 
never been. There is a son — there was a father. There 
is an effect — there w'as a cause. Surely this is sufficient 
information for the most Fatima-like curiosity ; and, if it 
be not, we regret our inability to supply any further evi- 
dence on the point. Can there be a more satisfactory, or 
more strictly parliamentary course ? Impossible. 


THE EIKJST OiLXlBUS CAD. 


197 


We at once avow a similar inability to record at what 
precise period, or by what particular process, this gentle- 
man’s patronymic of William Barker became corrupted 
into “ Bill Boorker.” Mr. Barker acquired a higli stand- 
ing, and no inconsiderable reputation, among the mem- 
bers of that profession to which he more peculiarly de- 
voted his energies ; and to them he was generally known, 
either by the familiar appellation of “ Bill Boorker,” or 
the flattering designation of “ Aggerawatin Bill,” the lat- 
ter being a playful and expressive sobriquet^ illustrative 
of Mr. Barker's great talent in aggerawatin ” and ren- 
dering wild such subjects of her Majesty as are con- 
veyed from place to place, through the instrumentality 
of omnibuses. Of the early life of Mr. Barker little is 
known, and even that little is involved in considerable 
doubt and obscurity. A want of application, a restless- 
ness of purpose, a thirsting after porter, a love of all that 
is roving and cadger-like in nature, shared in common 
with many other great geniuses, appear to have been his 
leading characteristics.. The busy hum of a parochial 
free-school, and the shady repose of a county jail, were 
alike inefficacious in producing the slightest alteration in 
Mr. Barker’s disposition. His feverish attachment to 
change and variety, nothing could repress ; liis native 
daring no punishment could subdue. 

If Mr. Barker can be fairly said to have had any 
weakness in his earlier years, it was an amiable one — 
love ; love in its most comprehensive form — a love of 
ladies, liquids, and pocket-handkerchiefs. It was no self- 
ish feeling ; it was not confined to his own possessions, 
ivhich but too many men regard with exclusive compla- 
cency. No ; it was a nobler love — a general principle. 
It extended itself with equal force to the property of 
other people. 


198 


SKETCHES BY BOZ. 


There is something very affecting in this. It is still 
more affecting to know, that such philanthropy is but 
imperfectly rewarded. Bow Street, Newgate, and Mill 
Bank, are a poor return for general benevolence, evincing 
itself in an irrepressible love for all created objects. Mr. 
Barker felt it so. After a lengthened interview with the 
highest legal authorities, lie quitted his ungrateful coun- 
tiy, with the consent, and at the expense of its Govern- 
ment ; proceeded to a distant shore ; and there employed 
himself, like another Cincinnatus, in clearing and culti- 
vating the soil — a peaceful pursuit, in which a term of 
seven years glided almost imperceptibly away. 

Whether, at the expiration of the period we have just 
mentioned, the British Government required Mr. Bark- 
er’s presence here, or did not require his residence 
abroad, we have no distinct means of ascertaining. We 
should be inclined, however, to favor the latter position, 
inasmuch as we do not find that he was advanced to any 
other public post on his return, than the post at the 
corner of the Haymarket, where • he officiated as assist- 
ant waterman to the hackney-coach stand. Seated, in 
this capacity, on a couple of tubs near the curb-stone, 
with a brass-plate and number suspended round his neck 
by a massive chain, and his ankles curiously enveloped 
in haybands, he is supposed to have made those observa- 
tions on human nature which exercised so material an 
influence over all liis proceedings in later life. 

]\Ir. Barker had not officiated for many months in this 
capacity, when the appearance of the first omnibus caused 
the public mind to go in a new direction, and prevented 
a great many hackney-coaches from going in any direc- 
tion at all. The genius of Mr. Barker at once perceived 
the whole extent of the injury that would be eventually 


THE FIRST OMNIBUS CAD. 


199 


inflicted on cab and coach stands, and, by consequence, 
on watermen also, by the progress of the system of whicli 
the first omnibus was a part. He saw, too, the necessity 
of adopting some more profitable profession ; and his 
active mind at once perceived how much might be done 
m the way of enticing the youthful and unwary, and 
shoving the old and helpless, into the wrong buss, and 
^ai-rying them off, until, reduced to despair, they ran- 
gomed themselves by the payment of sixpence a-head, or, 
to adopt his own figurative expression in all its native 
beauty, till they was rig’larly done over, and forked out 
the stumpy.” 

An opportunity for realizing his fondest anticipations 
soon presented itself. Humors* were rife on the hackney- 
coach stands, that a buss was building, to run from Lisson 
Grove to the Bank, down Oxford Street and Holborn ; 
and the rapid increase of busses on the Paddington Road, 
encouraged the idea. Mr. Barker secretly and cautiously 
inquired in the proper quarters. The report was correct ; 
the “ Royal William ” was to make its first journey on 
the following Monday. It Avas a crack affair altogether. 
An enterprising young cabman, of established reputation 
as a dashing whip — for he had compromised with the 
parents of three scrunched children, and just “worked 
out ” his fine for knocking down an old lady — was the 
driver ; and the spirited proprietor, knowing Mr. Bark- 
er’s qualifications, appointed him to the vacant office of 
cad on the very first application. The buss began to 
fun, and Mr. Barker entered into a new suit of clothes, 
and on a new sphere of action. 

To recapitulate all the improvements introduced by 
. this extraordinary man, into the omnibus system — grad- 
ually, indeed, but surely — would occupy a far greater 


200 


SKETCHES P>Y BOZ. 


Space than we are enabled to devote to this imperfect 
memoir. To him is universally assigned the original 
suggestion of the practice which afterwards became so 
general — of the driver of a second buss keeping con- 
stantly behind the first one, and driving the pole of his 
vehicle either into tlie door of the other, every time it 
was opened, or through the body of any lady or gentle- 
man who might make an attempt to get into it ; a humor- 
ous and pleasant invention, exhibiting all that originality 
of idea and fine bold fiow of spirits so conspicuous in 
every action of this great mari. 

Mr. Barker had opponents of course ; what man in 
public life has not ? But even his worst enemies cannot 
deny that he has taken more old ladies and gentlemen to 
Paddington who wanted to go to the Bank, and more old 
ladies and gentlemen to the Bank who wanted to go to 
Paddington, than any six men on the road ; and however 
much malevolent spirits may pretend to doubt the accu- 
racy of the statement, they well know it to be an estab- 
lished fact, that he haa forcibly conveyed a variety of 
ancient persons of either sex, to both places, who had 
not th^ slightest or most distant intention of going any- 
where at all. 

Mr. Barker was the identical cad who nobly distin- 
guished himself, some time since, by keeping a tradesman 
on the step — the omnibus going at full speed all the 
time — till he had thrashed him to his entire satisfaction, 
and finally throwing him away when he had quite done 
with him. Mr. Barker it ought to have been, who hon- 
estly indignant at being ignominiously ejected from a 
house of public entertainment, kicked the landlord in the 
knee, and thereby caused his death. We say it ought to 
have been INlr. Barker, because the action was not a 


THE FIRST OMNIBUS CAD. 


201 


common one, and could have emanated from no ordinal^ 
mind. 

It has now become matter of history ; it is recorded 
in the Newgate Calendar ; and we wish we could attrib- 
ute this piece of daring heroism to Mr. Barker. We 
regret being compelled to state that it was not performed 
h}^ him. Would, for the family credit we could add, that 
it was achieved by his brother 1 

It was in the exercise of the nicer details of his pro- 
fession, that Mr. Barker’s knowledge of human nature 
was beautifully displayed. He could tell at a glance 
where a passenger wanted to go to, and would shout the 
name of the place accordingly, without the slightest ref- 
erence to the real destination of the vehicle. He knew 
exa,ctly the kind of old lady that would be too much 
flurried by the process of pushing in, and pulling out of 
the caravan, to discover where she had been put down, 
until too late ; had an intuitive perception of what was 
passing in a passenger’s mind, when he inwardly resolved 
to pull that cad up to-morrow morning ; ” and never 
failed to make himself agreeable to female servants, 
whom he would place next the door, and talk to all the 
way. 

Human judgment is never infallible, and it would occa- 
sionally happen that Mr. Barker experimentalized with 
the timidity or forbearance of the Avrong person, in which 
case a summons to a police-office, was, on more than one 
occasion, followed by a committal to prison. It was not 
in the power of trifles such as these, ho^vever, to subdue 
ihe freedom of his spirit. As soon as they passed away, 
he resumed the duties of his profession with unabated 
ardor. 

AVe have spoken of AIi\ Barker and of the red-cab* 


202 


SKETCHES BY BOZ. 


driver in the past tense. Alas ! Mr. Barker has again 
become an absentee ; and the class of men to which they 
both belonged are fast disappearing. Improvement has 
})eered beneath the aprons of our cabs, and penetrated 
to the very innermost recesses of our omnibuses. Dirt 
and fustian will vanish before cleanliness and livery. 
Slang will be forgotten when civility becomes general : 
and that enlightened, eloquent, sage, and profound body, 
the Magistracy of London, will be deprived of half their 
amusement, and half their occupation. 


CHAPTER XVIII. 

A PARLIAMENTARY SKETCH. 

We hope our readers will not be alarmed at thi^ 
rather ominous title. We assure them that we are not 
about to become political, neither have we the slightest 
intention of being more prosy than usual — if we can 
help it. It has occurred to us that a slight sketch of the 
general aspect of “ the House,” and the crowds that 
resort to it on the night of an important debate, would 
be productive of some amusement ; and as we have 
made some few calls at the aforesaid house in our time 
— have visited it quite often enough for our purpose, 
and a great deal too often for our own personal peace 
and comfort — we have determined to attempt the de- 
scription. Dismissing from our minds, therefore, all 
that feeling of awe, which vague ideas of breaches of 
privilege, Sergeant-at-Arms, heavy denunciations, and 


A PARJ.IAMENTARY SKETCH. 


203 


still heavier fees, are calculated to awaken, we enter at 
once into the building, and upon our subject. 

Half-past four o’clock — and at five the morer of the 
Address will be ‘^on his legs,” as the newspapers an- 
nounce sometimes by way of novelty, as if speakers 
were occasionally in the habit of standing on their 
heads. The members are pouring in, one after the 
other, in shoals. The few spectators who can .btain 
standing-room in the passages, scrutinize them as they 
pass, with the utmost interest, and the man who can 
identify a member occasionally, becomes a person of 
great importance. Every now and then you hear ear- 
nest whispers of ‘‘ That’s Sir John Thomson.” “Which? 
him with the gilt order round his neck ? ” No, no ; 
that’s one of the messengers — that other, with tlie 
yellow gloves, is Sir John Thomson.” “ Here’s Mr. 
Smith.” “ Lor ! ” “ Yes, how d’ye do, sir ? — (He is 

our new member) — How do you do, sir ? ” Mr. Smith 
stops : turns round with an air of enchanting urbanity 
(for the rumor of an intended dissolution has been very 
extensively circulated this morning) ; seizes both the 
hands of his gratified constituent, and, after greeting 
him with the most enthusiastic warmth, darts into the 
lobby with an extraordinary display of ardor in the 
public cause, leaving an immense impression in his 
favor on the mind of his “fellow-townsman.” 

The arrivals increase in number, and the heat and 
noise increase in very unpleasant proportion. The liv- 
ery servants form a complete lane on either side of tlie 
passage, and you reduce yourself into the smallest pos- 
sible space to avoid being turned out. You see that 
stout man with the hoarse voice, in the blue coat, queer- 
crowned, broad-brimmed hat, white corduroy breeches, 


204 


SKETCHES BY BOZ. 


and great boots, who has been talking incessantly for 
half an hour past, and whose importance has occasioned 
no small quantity of mirth among the strangers. That 
is the great conservator of the peace of Westminster. 
You cannot fail to have remarked the grace with which 
he saluted the noble Lord wdio passed just now, or the 
excessive dignity of his air, as lie expostulates with the 
crowd. He is rather out of temper now, in consequence 
of the very irreverent behavior of those two young 
fellows behind him, who have done nothing but laugh all 
the time they have been here. 

“ Will they divide to-night, do you think, Mr. ? ” 

timidly inquires a little thin man in the crowd, hoping to 
conciliate the man of office. 

How can you ask such questions, sir ? ’’ replies the 
functionary, in an incredibly loud key, and pettishly 
grasping the thick stick he carries in his right hand. 
“ Pray do not, sir, I beg of you ; pray do not, sir.” 
The little man looks remarkably out of his element, and 
the uninitiated part of the throng are in positive convul- 
sions of laughter. 

Just at this moment, some unfortunate individual ap- 
pears, with a very smirking air, at the bottom of the 
long passage. He has managed to elude the vigilance 
of the special constable down-stairs, and is evidently 
congratulating himself on having made his way so far. 

“Go back, sir — you must not come here,” shouts the 
hoarse one, with tremendous emphasis of voice and ges- 
ture, the moment the offender catches his eye. 

The stranger pauses. 

“ Do you hear, sir — will you go back ? ” continues the 
official dignitary, gently pushing tlie intruder some half 
dozen yards. 


A PARLIAMENTARY SKETCH. 


205 


‘‘ Come, don’t push me,” replies the stranger, turning 
angrily round. 

“ I will, sir.” 

You won’t, sir.” 

“ Go out, sir.” 

Take your hands off me, sir.” 

Go out of the passage, sir.” 

“ You are a Jack-in-office, sir.” 

‘‘ A what ? ” ejaculates he of the boots. 

“A Jack-in-office, sir, and a very insolent fellow,” 
reiterates the stranger, now completely in a passion. 

Pray do not force me to put you out, sir,” retorts the 
other — “ pray do not — my instructions are to keep this 
passage clear — it’s the Speaker’s orders, sir.” 

“ D — n the Speaker, sir ! ” shouts the intruder. 

“ Here, Wilson ! — Collins ! ” gasps the officer, actually 
paralyzed at this insulting expression, which in his mind 
is all but high treason ; “ take this man out — take him 
out, I say ! How dare you, sir ? ” and down goes the 
unfortunate man five stairs at a time, turning round at 
every stoppage, to come back again, and denouncing 
bitter vengeance against the commander-in-chief, and all 
his supernumeraries. 

“ Make way, gentlemen, — pray make way for the 
Members, I beg of you ! ” shouts the zealous officer, turn- 
ing back, and preceding a whole string of the liberal and 
independent. 

You see this ferocious-looking gentleman, with a com- 
plexion almost as sallow as his linen, and whose large 
black moustache would give him the appearance of a 
iigure in a hair-dresser’s window, if his countenance pos- 
sessed the thought which is communicated to those 
waxen caricatures of the human face divine. He is a 


206 


SKETCHES BY BOZ. 


militia-officer, and the most amusing person in the House. 
Can anything be more exquisitely absurd than the bur- 
lesque grandeur of his air, as he strides up to the lobby, 
his eyes rolling like those of a Turk’s head in a cheap 
Dutch clock? Pie never appears without that bundle 
of dirty papers which he carries under his left arm, and 
which are generally supposed to be the miscellaneous esti- 
mates for 1804, or some equally important documents. 
He is very punctual in his attendance at the House, and 
his self-satisfied “ He-ar-PIe-ar,” is not unfrequently the 
signal for a general titter. 

This is the gentleman who once actually sent a mes- 
senger up to the Strangers’ gallery in the old House of 
Commons, to inquire the name of an individual who was 
using an eye-glass, in order that he might complain to 
the Speaker that the person in question was quizzing 
him ! On another occasion, he is reported to have re- 
paired to Bellamy’s kitchen — a refreshment room, 
where persons who are not Members are admitted on 
sufferance, as it were — and perceiving two or three 
gentlemen at supper, who he was aware w^ere not Mem- 
bers, and could not, in that place, very well resent his 
behavior, he indulged in the pleasantry of sitting with 
his booted leg on the table at which they were supping ! 
He is generally harmless, though, and always amusing. 

By dint of patience, and some little interest Avith our 
friend the constable, we have contrived to make our way 
to the Lobby, and you can just manage to catch an occa- 
sional glimpse of the House, as the door is opened for 
the admission of Members. It is tolerably full already, 
and little groups of Members are congregated together 
here, discussing the interesting topics of the day. 

That smart-looking fellow in the black coat, with 


A PARLIAMENTARY SKETCH. 


207 


velvet facings and cuffs, who wears his U Orsay hat so 
rakishly, is “ Honest Tom,” a metropolitan I'epresenta- 
tive ; and the large man in the cloak with the white 
lining — not the man by the pillar ; the other, with the 
light hair hanging over his coat-collar behind — is his 
colleague. The quiet gentlemanly-looking man in the 
blue surtout, gray trousers, white neckerchief, and gloves, 
whose closely-buttoned coat displays his manly figure 
and broad chest to great advantage, is a very well-known 
character. He has fought a great many battles in his 
time, and conquered like the heroes of old, with no other 
arms than those the gods gave him. The old hard- 
featured man who is standing near him, is really a good 
specimen of a class of men now nearly extinct. He is 
a county Member, and has been from time whereof 
the memory of man is not to the contrary. Look at his 
loose, wide, brown coat, with capacious pockets on each 
side ; the knee-breeches and boots, the immensely long 
waistcoat, and silver watch-chain dangling below it, the 
wide-brimmed brown hat, and the white handkerchief 
tied in a great bow, with straggling ends sticking, out 
beyond his shirt-frill. It is a costume one seldom sees 
nowadays, and when the few who wear it have died off, 
it will be quite extinct. He can tell you long stories of 
Fox, Pitt, Sheridan, and Canning, and how much better 
the House was managed in those times, when they used 
to get up at eight or nine o’clock, except on regular field 
days, of which everybody was apprised beforehand. He 
has a great contempt for all young Members of Parlia- 
ment, and thinks it quite impossible that a man can say 
anything worth hearing, unless he has sat in the House 
for fifteen years at least, witffout saying anything at all. 
He is of opinion that “that young Macaulay” was a 


208 


SKETCHES BY BOZ. 


regular impostor ; he allows that Lord Stanley may do 
something one of these days, but he’s too young, sir — 
too young.” He is an excellent authority on points of 
precedent, and when he grows talkative, after his wine, 
will tell you how Sir Somebody Something, when he 
was whipper-in' for the Government, brought four men 
out of their beds to vote in the majority, three of whom 
died on their way home again ; how the House once 
divided, on the question, that fresh candles be now 
brought in ; how the Speaker was once upon a time left 
in the chair by accident, at the conclusion of business, 
and was obliged to sit in the House by himself for three 
hours, till some Member could be knocked up and brought 
back again, to move the adjournment ; and a great many 
other anecdotes of a similar description. 

There he stands, leaning on his stick ; looking at the 
thi’ong of Exquisites around him with most profound 
contempt ; and conjuring up, before his mind’s eye, the 
scenes he beheld in the old House in days gone by, when 
his own feelings were fresher and brighter, and v/hen, as 
he ^ imagines, Avit, talent, and patriotism flourished more 
brightly too. 

You are curious to know Avho that young man in the 
rough great-coat is, Avho has accosted every Member Avho 
has entered the House since Ave have been standing here. 
He is not a Member; he is only an “hereditary bonds- 
man,” or, in other Avords, an Irish correspondent of an 
Irish newspaper, who has just procured his forty-second 
frank from a Member Avhom he never saw in his life be- 
fore. There he goes again — another ! Bless the man, 
ho has his hat and pockets full already. 

We will try our fortune at the Strangers’ gallery, 
though the nature of the debate encourages very little 


A PARLIAMENTARY SKETCH. 


209 


hope of success. What on earth are you about ? Hold- 
ing up your order as if it were a talisman at whose com- 
mand the wicket would i\y open ? Nonsense. Just 
preserve the order for an autograph, if it be worth keep- 
ing at all, and make your appearance at the door with 
your thumb and forefinger expressively inserted in your 
waistcoat-pocket. This tall stout man in black is the 
doorkeeper. “ Any room ? ” — “Not an inch — two or 
three dozen gentlemen waiting down-stairs on the chance 
of somebody’s going out.” Pull out your purse — “ Are 
you quite sure there’s no room ? ” — “ Til go and look,” 
replie j the doorkeeper, with a wistful glance at your 
purse, “ but I’m afraid there’s not.” He returns, and 
with real feeling assures you that it is morally impossi- 
ble to get near the gallery. It is of no use waiting. 
When you are refused admission into the Strangers’ gal- 
lery at the House of Commons, under such circumstances, 
you may return home thoroughly satisfied that the place 
must be remarkably full indeed.^ 

Retracing our steps through the long passage, descend- 
ing the stairs, and crossing Palace Yard, we halt at a 
small temporary doorway adjoining the King’s entrance 
to the House of Lords. The order of the sergeant-at- 
arrns will admit you into the Reporters’ gallery, from 
whence you can obtain a tolerably good view of the 
House. Take care of the stairs, they are none of the 
best; through this little wicket — there. As soon as 
your eyes become a little used to the mist of the place, 
and the glare of the chandeliers below you, you will see 
that some unimportant personage on the Ministerial sido 

* This paper was written before the practice of exhibiting Members 
of Tarliament, like other curiosities, for the' small charge of half-a- 
LTOwn, was abolished. 

VOL. I. 


14 


210 


SKETCHES BY BOZ. 


of the House (to jour right hand) is speaking, amidst a 
hum of voices and confusion which would rival Babel, 
but for the circumstance of its being all in one language. 

The hear, hear,” which occasioned that laugh, pro- 
ceeded from our w^arlike friend with the moustache; ho 
is sitting on the back seat against the wall, behind the 
Member who is speaking, looking as ferocious and intel- 
lectual as usual. Take one look around you, and retire ! 
The body of the House and the side galleries are full of 
Members ; some, with their legs on the back of the oppo- 
site seat ; some, with theirs stretched out to their utmost 
length on the floor ; some going out, others coming in ; 
all talking, laughing, lounging, coughing, o-ing, question- 
ing, or groaning ; presenting a conglomeration of noise 
and confusion, to be met with in no other place in exist- 
ence, not even excepting Smithfield on a market-day, or 
a cockpit in its glory. 

But let us not omit to notice Bellamy’s kitchen, or, 
in other words, the refreshment-room, common to both 
Houses of Parliament, where Ministerialists and Oppo- 
sitionists, Whigs and Tories, Radicals, Peers, and De- 
structives, strangers from the gallery, and the more 
favored strangers from below the bar, are alike at liberty 
to resort ; where divers honorable Members prove their 
perfect independence by remaining during the whole of a 
heavy debate, solacing themselves with the creature com- 
forts ; and whence they are summoned by whippers-in, 
when the House is on the point of dividing ; either to 
give their “conscientious votes” on questions of which 
they are conscientiously innocent o.f knowing anything 
whatever, or to find a vent for the playful exuberance 
of their wine-inspired fancies, in boisterous shouts of 
“ Divide,” occasionally varied with a little howling, 


A PARLIAMENTARY SKETCH. 


211 


barking, crowing, or other ebullitions of senatorial pleas- 
antry. 

When you have ascended the narrow staircase which, 
in the present temporary House of Commons, leads to 
the place we are describing, you will probably observe a 
couple of rooms on your right hand, with tables spread 
for dining. Neither of these is the kitchen, although 
they are both devoted to the same purpose ; the kitchen 
is further on to our left, up these half-dozen stairs. Before 
we ascend the staircase, however, we must request you to 
pause in front of this little bar-place with the sash-win- 
dows ; and beg your particular attention to the steady 
honest-looking old fellow in black, who is its sole occu- 
pant. Nicholas (we do not mind mentioning the old fel- 
low’s name, for if Nicholas be not a public man, who is ? 
— and public men’s names are public property) — Nich- 
olas is the Butler of Bellamy’s, and has held the same 
place, dressed exactly in the same manner, and said pre- 
cisely the same things, ever since the oldest of its present 
visitors can remember. An excellent servant Nicholas 
is — an unrivalled compounder of salad-dressing — an 
admirable preparer of soda-water and lemon — a special 
mixer of cold grog and punch — and, above all, an un- 
equalled judge of cheese. If the old man have such a 
thing as vanity in his composition, this is certainly his 
pride ; and if it be possible to imagine that anything in 
this world could disturb his impenetrable calmness, we 
should say it would be the doubting his judgment on this 
important point. 

'We needn’t tell you all this, however, for if you have 
an atom of observation, one glance at his sleek, knowing- 
looking head and face — his prim white neckerchief, with 
the wooden tie into which it has been regularly folded 


212 


SKETCHES BY BOZ. 


for twenty years past, merging by imperceptible degrees 
into a small-plaited &hirt-frill — and his comfortable* 
looking form encased in a well-brushed suit of black — 
would give you a better idea of his real character than a 
column of our poor description could convey. 

Nicholas is rather out of his element now ; he cannot 
see the kitchen as he used to in the old House ; there, 
one window of his glass case opened into the room, and 
then, for the edification and behoof of more juvenile 
questioners, he would stand for an hour together, an- 
swering deferential questions about Sheridan, and Per- 
ceval, and Castlereagh, and Heaven knows who beside, 
with manifest delight, alwavs inserting a “ Mister before 
every commoner’s name. 

Nicholas, like all men of his age and standing, has a 
great idea of the degeneracy of the times. He seldom 
expresses any political opinions, but we managed to 
ascertain, just before the passing of the Reform Bill, 
that Nicholas v;as a thorough Reformer. What was our 
astonishment to discover shortly after the meeting of the 
first reformed Parliament, that he was a most inveterate 
and decided Tory ! It was very odd : some men change 
their opinions from necessity, others from expediency, 
others from ins[)iration ; but that Nicholas should un- 
dergo any change in any respect, was an event we had 
never contemplated, and should have considered impos- 
sible. His strong opinion against the clause which em- 
powered the metropolitan districts to return Members to 
Parliament, too, was perfectly unaccountable. 

We discovered the secret at last ; the metroj)olitau 
Members always dined at home. The rascals ! As for 
giving additional Members to Ireland, it was even worse 
— decidedly unconstitutional. Why, sir, an Irish Mem- 


A PARLIAMENTAKY SKETCH. 


213 


ber would go up there, and eat more dinner than three 
English Members put together. He took no wine ; 
drank table-beer by the half-gallon ; and went home 
to Manchester Buildings, or Milbank Street, for his 
whisky-and-water. And what was the consequence ? 
AVhy tlie concern lost — actually lost, sir — by his 
patronage. 

A queer old fellow is Nicholas, and as completely a 
part of the building as the house itself. A/Ye wonder he 
ever left the old place, and fully expected to see in the 
papers, the morning after the fire, a pathetic account of 
an old gentleman in black, of decent appearance, who 
was seen at one of the upper windows when the flames 
were at their height, and declared his resolute intention 
of falling with the floor. He must have been got out 
by force. However, he was got out — here he is again, 
looking as he always does, as if he had been in a band- 
box ever since the. last session. There he is, at his old 
post every night, just as we have described him : and, as 
characters are scarce, and faithful servants scarcer, long 
may he be there say we ! 

Now, when you have taken your seat in the kitchen, 
and duly noticed the large fire and roasting-jack at one 
end of the room — the little table for washing glasses 
and draining jugs at the other — the clock over the win- 
dow opposite St. Margaret’s Church — the deal tables 
and wax candles — the ‘ damask table-cloths and bare 
floor — the plate and china on the tables, and the grid- 
iron on the fire ; and a few other anomalies peculiar to 
the place — we will point out to your notice two or three 
of the people present, whose station or absurdities render 
them the most worthy of remark. 

It is half-past twelve o’clock, and as the division is not 


214 


SKETCHES BY BOZ. 


expected for aii hour or two, a few Members are loung- 
ing away the time here, in preference to standing at the 
bar of the House, or sleeping in one of the side galleries. 
That singularly aw^kward and wngainly looking man, in 
the brownish-white hat, with the straggling black trousers 
which reach about half-way down the leg of his boots, 
who is leaning against the meat-screen, apparently de- 
luding himself into the belief that he is thinking about 
something, is a splendid sample of a Member of the 
House of Commons concentrating in his own person the 
wisdom of a constituency. Observe the wig, of a dark 
hue but indescribable color, for if it be naturally brown, 
it has acquired a black tint by long service, and if it be 
naturally black, the same cause has imparted to it a tinge 
of rusty brown ; and remark how very materially the 
great blinker-like spectacles assist the expression of that 
most intelligent face. Seriously speaking, did you ever 
see a countenance so expressive o^ the most hopeless 
extreme of heavy dulness, or behold a form so strangely 
put together ? He is no great speaker : but when he does 
address the House, the effect is absolutely irresistible. 

The small gentleman with the sharp nose, who has just 
saluted him, is a Member of Parliament, an ex- Alderman, 
and a sort of amateur fireman. He, and the celebrated 
fireman’s dog, were observed to be remarkably active at 
the conflagration of the two Houses of Parliament — they 
both ran up and down, and in and out, getting under peo- 
ple’s feet, and into everybody’s way, fully impressed with 
the belief, that they were doii}g a great deal of good, and 
barking tremendously. The dog went quietly back to his 
kennel with the engine, but the gentleman kept up such 
an incessant noise for some weeks after the occurrence, 
that he became a positive nuisance. As no more parlia- 


A PAliLI AMENTARY SKETCH. 


215 


mentary fires have occurred, however, and as he has con- 
sequently had no more opportunities of writing to the 
newspapers to relate how, by way of preserving pictures, 
he cut them out of their frames, and performed other 
gi-eat national services, he has gradually relapsed into 
his old state of calmness. 

That female in black — not the one whom the Lord’s- 
Day-Bill Baronet has just chucked under the chin ; the 
shorter of the two — is “Jane : ” the Hebe of Bellamy’s. 
Jane is as great a character as Nicholas, in her way. Her 
leading features are a thorough contempt for the great 
majority of her visitors ; her predominant quality, love 
of admiration, as you cannot fail to observe, if you mark 
the glee with which she listens to something the young 
IMember near her mutters somewhat unintelligibly in her 
ear (for his speech is rather thick from some cause or 
other), and how playfully she digs the handle of a fork 
into the arm with which he detains her, by way of reply. 

Jane is no bad hand at repartees, and showers them 
about, with a degree of liberality and total absence of 
reserve or constraint, which occasionally excites no small 
amazement in the minds of strangers. She cuts jokes 
with Nicholas, too, but looks up to him with a great deal 
of respect ; the immovable solidity with which Nicholas 
receives the aforesaid jokes, and looks on at certain pas- 
toral friskings and rompings (Jane’s only recreations, and 
they are very innocent too) which occasionally takes 
place in the passage, is not the least amusing part of his 
character. 

The two persons who are seated at the table in the 
corner, at the farther end of the room, have been con- 
stant guests here, for many years past ; and one of them 
has feasted within these walls, many a time, with the 


216 


SKETCHES BY BOZ. 


most brilliant characters of a brilliant period. He has 
gone up to the other House since then ; the greater part 
of his boon companions have shared Yorick’s fate, and 
his visits to Bellamy’s are comparatively few. 

If he really be eating his supper now, at what hour 
can he possibly have dined ! A second solid mass of 
rump-steak has di<ap[)eared, and he ate the first in four 
minutes and three quarters, by the clock over the window. 
Was there ever such a personification of Falstaff I Mark 
the air with Avhich he gloats over that Stilton as he re- 
moves the napkin which has been placed beneath his 
chin to catch the supei-fluous gravy of the steak, and 
with what gusto he imbibes the porter which has been 
fetched, expressly for him, in the pewter pot. Listen to 
the hoarse sound of that voice, kept down as it is by 
layers of solids, and deep draughts of rich Avine. and tell 
us if you ever saw such a perfect picture of a regular 
gourmand; and whether he is not exactly the man 
Avhom you would pitch upon as having been the partner 
of Sheridan’s parliamentary carouses, the volunteer driver 
of the hackney-coach that took him home, and the invol- 
untary upset ter of the whole party ? 

What an amusing contrast between his voice and ap- 
pearance, and that of the spare, squeaking old man, Avho 
sits at the same table, and who elevating a little cracked 
bantam sort of A^oice to its highest pitch, invokes damna- 
tion upon his oAvn eyes or someborly else’s at the com- 
mencement of every sentence he utters. “ The Captain,” 
as they call him, is a very old frequenter of Bellamy’s ; 
much addicted to stopping “ after the House is up ” (an 
inexpiable crime in Jane’s eyes), and a complete walking 
reservoir of spirits and water. 

The old Peer — or rather, the old man — for his peer* 


PUBLIC DINNERS. 


217 


age is of comparatively recent date — lias a huge tumbler 
of hot punch brought him ; and the other damns and 
drinks, and drinks and damns, and smokes. Members 
arrive every moment in a great bustle to report that 
‘‘The Chancellor of the Exchequer’s up,” and to get 
glasses of brandy-and-water to sustain them .during the 
division ; people who have ordered supper, countermand 
it, and prepare to go down-stairs, when suddenly a bell is 
heard to ring with tremendous violence, and a cry of 
“ Di-vi-sion ! ” is heard in the passage. This is enough ; 
away rush the members pell-mell. The room is cleared 
in an instant ; the noise rapidly dies away ; you hear the 
creaking of the last boot on the last stair, and are left 
alone with the leviathan of rump-steaks. 


CHAPTER XIX. 

PUBLIC DINNERS. 

All public dinners in London, from the Lord Mayor’s 
annual banquet at Guildhall, to the Chimney-sweepers’ 
anniversary at White Conduit House ; from the Gold- 
smiths’ to the Butchers’, from the Sheriffs’ to the 
Licensed Victualler’s ; are amusing scenes. Of all enter- 
tainments of this description, however, we think the an- 
nual dinner of some public charity is the most amusing. 
At a Company’s dinner, the people are nearly all alike 
— regular old stagers, who make it a matter of business, 
and a thing not to be laughed at. At a political dinner, 
everybody is disagreeable, and inclined to speechify — 


218 


SKETCHES BY BOZ. 


much the same thing, by the by ; but at a charity dinnei 
you see people of all sorts, kinds, and descriptions. The 
wine may not be remarkably special, to be sure, and we 
liave heard some hard-hearted monsters grumble at tiie 
collection ; but we really think the amusement to be de- 
rived from tlie occasion, sufficient to counterbalance even 
these disadvantages. 

Let us suppose you are induced to attend a dinner of 
this description — “ Indigent Orphans’ Friends’ Benevo- 
lent Institution,” we think it is. The name of the charity 
is a line or two longer, but never mind the rest. You 
have a distinct recollection, however, that you purchased 
a ticket at the solicitation of some charitable friend : and 
you deposit yourself in a hackney-coach, the driver of 
which — no doubt that you may do the thing in style — 
turns a deaf ear to your earnest entreaties to be set 
down at the corner of Great Queen Street, and persists 
in carrying you to the very door of the Freemasons’, 
round whicli a crowd of people are assembled to witness 
the entrance of the indigent orphans’ friends. You hear 
great speculations as you pay the 1‘are, on the possibility 
of your being the noble Lord who is announced to fill the 
chair on the occasion, and are highly gratified to hear it 
eventually decided that you are only a “ wocalist.” 

The first thing that strikes you, on your entrance, is 
the astonishing importance of the committee. You ob- 
serve a door on the first landing, carefully guarded by 
two waiters, in and out of which stout gentlemen with 
very red faces keep running, with a degree of speed 
liighly unbecoming the gravity of persons of their yeare 
and corpulency. Y’^ou pause, quite alarmed at the bustle, 
and thinking, in your innocence, that two or three people 
must have been carried out of the dining-room in fits, at 


PUBLIC DINNERS. 


219 


least. You are immediately undeceived by the waiter — 
‘‘ Up-stairs, if you please, sir ; this is the committee- 
room.” Up-stairs you go, accordingly ; wondering, as 
you mount, what tlie duties of the committee can be, 
and whether they ever do anything beyond confusing 
each other, and running over the waiters. 

Having deposited your hat and cloak, and received a 
remarkably small scrap of pasteboard in exchange (which, 
as a matter of course, you lose, before you require it 
again), you enter the' hall, down which there are three 
long tables for the less distinguished guests, with a cross 
table on a raised platform at the upper end for the recep- 
tion of the very particular friends of the indigent orphans. 
Being fortunate enough to find a plate without anybody’s 
card in it, you wisely seat yourself at once, and have a 
little leisure to look about you. Waiters, with wine- 
baskets in their hands, are placing decanters of sheiTy 
down the tables, at very respectable distances ; melan- 
choly-looking saltcellars, and decayed vinegar-cruets, 
which might have belonged to the parents of the indigent 
orphans in their time, are scattered at distant intervals on 
the cloth ; and the knives and forks look as if they had 
done duty at every public dinner in London since the 
accession of George the First. The musicians are scrap- 
ing and grating and screwing tremendously — playing no 
notes but notes of preparation ; and several gentlemen 
are gliding along the sides of the tables, looking into 
plate after plate with frantic eagerness, the expression of 
their countenances growing more and more dismal as they 
meet with everybody’s card but their own. 

You turn round to take a look at the table behind you, 
and — not being in the habit of attending public dinners 
— are somewhat struck by the appearance of the party 


220 


SKETCHES BY BOZ. 


on which your eyes rest. One of its principal members 
appears to be a little man, with a long and rather in- 
flamed face, and gray hair brushed bolt upright in front ; 
he wears a wisp of black silk round his neck, without 
any stiffener, as an apology for a neckerchief, and is ad- 
dressed by his companions by the familiar appellation of 
“ Fitz,’’ or some such monosyllable. Near him is a stout 
man in a white neckerchief and buff waistcoat, with 
shining dark hair, cut very short in front, and a great 
round healthy looking face, on which he studiously pre- 
serves a half-sentimental simper. Next him, again, is a 
large-headed man, with black hair and bushy whiskers ; 
and opposite them are two or three others, one of whom 
is a little round-faced person, in a dress-stock and blue 
under-waistcoat. There is something peculiar in their 
air and manner, though you could hardly describe what 
it is ; you cannot divest yourself of the idea that they 
have come for some other purpose than mere eating and 
drinking. You have no time to debate the matter, how- 
ever, for the waiters (who have been arranged in lines 
down the room, placing the dishes on table), retire to the 
lower end ; the dark man in the blue coat and bright 
buttons, who has the direction of the music, looks up to 
the gallery, and calls out band ” in a very loud voice ; 
out burst the orchestra, up rise the visitors, in march 
fourteen stewards, each with a long wand in his hand, 
like the evil genius in a pantomime ; then the chairman, 
then the titled visitors ; they all make their way up the 
room, as fast as they can, bowing, and smiling, and 
smirking, and looking remarkably amiable. The ap- 
plause ceases, gi’ace is said, the clatter of plates and 
dishes begins ; and every one appears highly gratified, 
cither with the presence of the distinguished visitors, 


PUBLIC DINNERS. 221 

or the commencement of the anxiously expected din- 
ner. 

As to the dinner itself 7— the mere dinner — it goes 
off much the same everywhere. Tureens of soup are 
emptied with awful rapidity — waiters take plates of 
turbot away, to get lobster-sauce, and bring back plates 
of lobster-sauce without turbot ; people who can carve 
poultry, are great fools if they own it, and people who 
can’t, have no wish to learn. The knives and forks form 
a pleasing accompaniment to Auber’s music, and Auber’s 
music would form a pleasing accompaniment to the din- 
ner, if you could hear anything besides the cymbals. 
The substantials disappear — moulds of jelly vanish like 
lightning — hearty eaters wipe their foreheads, and ap- 
pear rather overcome with their recent exertions — peo- 
ple who have looked very cross hitherto, become remark- 
ably blind and ask you to take wine in the most friendly 
manner possible — old gentlemen direc t your attention 
to the ladies’ gallery, and take great pains to impress you 
with the fact that the charity is always peculiarly fa- 
vored in this respect — every one appears disposed to 
become talkative — and the hum of conversation is loud 
and general. 

Pray, silence, gentlemen, if you please, for Non 
nohis ! ” shouts the toast-master witli stentorian lungs — • 
a toast-master’s shirt-front, waistcoat, and neckerchief, by 
the by, always exhibit three distinct shades of cloudy- 
white. — “ Pi’ay, silence, gentlemen, for Non nohis ! ” 
The singers, whom you discover to be no other than the 
very party that excited your curiosity at first, after 
“ pitching ” their voices, immediately begin too-too’mg 
most dismally, on which the regular old stagers bui-st 
into occasional cries of — Sh — Sh — waiters ! — Si 


222 


SKETCHES BY BOZ. 


lence, waiters — stand- still, waiters — keep back, wait- 
ers,” and other exorcisms, delivered in a tone of indig- 
nant remonstrance. The grace is soon concluded, and 
the company resume their seats. The uninitiated por- 
tion of the guests applaud Non nohis as vehemently as if 
it were a capital comic song, greatly to the scandal and 
indignation of the regular diners, who immediately at- 
tempt to quell this sacrilegious approbation, by cries of 
“ Hush, hush ! ” whereupon the others, mistaking these 
sounds for hisses, applaud more tumultuously than be- 
fore, and, by way of placing their approval beyond the 
possibility of doubt, shout '‘^Encore ! ” most vociferously. 

The moment the noise ceases, up starts the toast- 
master : “ Gentlemen, charge your glasses, if you 

please ! ” Decanters having been handed about, and 
glasses filled, the toast-master proceeds, in a regular as- 
cending scale ; — Gentlemen — air — you — all charged ? 
Pray — silence — gentlemen — for — the cha — i — r ! ” 
The chairman rises, and, after stating that he feels it 
(juite unnecessary to preface the toast he is about to pro- 
pose with any observations whatever, wanders into a 
maze of sentences, and flounders about in the most ex- 
traordinary manner, presenting a lamentable spectacle of 
mystified humanity, until he arrives at the words, “ con- 
stitutional sovereign of these realms,” at which elderly 
gentlemen exclaim “ Bravo ! ” and hammer the table tre- 
mendously with their knife-handles. “ Under any cir- 
cumstances, it would give him the greatest pride, it would 
give him the greatest pleasure — he might almost say, it 
would afford him satisfaction [cheers] to propose that 
toast. What must be his feelings, then, when he has the 
gratification of announcing, that he has received her 
Majesty’s commands to apply to the Treasurer of hei 


PUBLIC DINNERS. 


223 


Majesty’s Household, for her Majesty’s annual donation 
of 25/., in aid of the funds of this charity ! ” This an- 
nouncement (which has been regularly made by every 
chairman, since the first -foundation of the charity, forty- 
two years ago) calls forth the most vociferous applause ; 
the toast is drunk with a great deal of cheering and 
knocking ; and “ God save the Queen ” is sung by the 
“ professional gentlemen ; ” the unprofessional gentlemen 
joining in the chorus, and giving the national anthem an 
effect which the newspapers,, with great justice, describe 
as ‘‘ perfectly electrical.” 

The other “ loyal and patriotic ” toasts having been 
drunk with all due enthusiasm, a comic song; having been 

7 O O 

well sung by the gentleman with the small neckerchief, 
and a sentimental one by the second of the party, we 
come to the most important toast of the evening — ‘‘ Pros- 
perity to the charity.” Here again we are compelled to 
adopt newspaper phraseology, and to express our regret 
at being “ precluded from giving even the substance of 
the noble lord’s observations.” Suffice it to say, that the 
speech, which is somewhat of the longest, is rapturously 
I’eceived ; and the toast having been drunk, the stewards 
(looking more important than ever) leave the room, and 
presently return, heading a procession of indigent or- 
phans, boys and girls, who walk round the room, courte- 
sying, and bowing, and treading on each other’s heels, 
and looking very much as if they would like a glass of 
wine apiece, to the high gratification of the company 
generally, and especially of the lady patronesses in the 
gallery. Exeunt children, and reenter stewards, each 
with a blue plate in his hand. The band plays a lively 
air ; the majority of the company put their hands in 
their pockets and look rather serious ; and the noise of 


224 


SKETCHES BY BOZ. 


sovereigns, rattling on crockery, is heard from all parts 
of the room. 

After a short interval, occupied in singing and toasting, 
the secretary puts on his spectacles, and proceeds to read 
the report knd list of subscriptions, the latter being lis- 
tened to with great attention. “ Mr. Smith, one guinea 

— Mr. Tompkins, one guinea — Mr. Wilson, one guinea 

— Mr. Hickson, one guinea — Mr. Nixon, one guinea — 
Mr. Charles Nixon, one guinea — [hear, hear !] — Mr. 
James Nixon, one guinea — Mr. Thomas Nixon, one 
pound one [tremendous applause]. Lord Fitz Binkle, 
the chairman of the day, in addition to an annual dona- 
tion of fifteen pounds — thirty guineas [prolonged knock- 
ing : several gentlemen knock the stems off their wine- 
glasses, in the vehemence of their approbation]. Lady 
Fitz Binkle, in addition to an annual donation of ten 
pound — twenty pound” [protracted knocking and shouts 
of “ Bravo ! ”]. The list being at length concluded, the 
chairman rises and proposes the health of the secretary, 
than whom he knows no more zealous or estimable indi- 
vidual. The secretary, in returning thanks, observes that 
he knows no more excellent individual than the chair- 
man — except the senior officer of the chairty, whose 
health he begs to propose. The senior officer in return- 
ing thanks, observes that he knows no more worthy man 
than the secretary — except Mr. Walker, the auditor, 
whose health he begs to propose. Mr. Walker, in return- 
ing thanks, discovers some other estimable individual, to 
whom alone the senior officer is inferior — and so they 
go on toasting and lauding and thanking : the only other 
toast of - importance being “ The Lady Patronesses now 
present ! ” on Avhich all the gentlemen turn their faces 
towards the ladies’ gallery, shouting tremendously ; and 


THE FIRST OF MAY. 


225 


little priggish men, who have imbibed more wine than 
usual, kiss their hands and exhibit distressing contortions 
of visage. 

We have protracted our dinner to so great a length, 
that we have hardly time to add one word by way of 
grace. We can only entreat our readers not to imagine, 
because we have attempted to extract some amusement 
from a charity dinner, that we are at ail disposed to 
underrate, either the excellence of the benevolent insti- 
tutions with which London abounds, or the estimable 
motives of those who support them. 


CHAPTER XX. 

THE FIRST OF MAY. 

“ Now ladies, up in the sky-parlor; only once a year, if you please! ” 
Young Lady with Brass Ladle. 

“ Sweep — sweep — sw-e-ep ! ” 

Illegal Watchword. 

The first of May ! There is a merry freshness in the 
sound, calling to our minds a thousand thoughts of all 
that is pleasant and beautiful in nature, in her most de- 
lightful form. What man is there over Avhose mind a 
bright spring morning does not exercise a magic influ- 
ence — carrying him back to the days of his childish 
sports, and conjuring up before him the old green field 
with its gently- waving trees, where the birds sang as he 
has never heard them since — where the butterfly flut- 
15 


VOL. I. 


226 


SKETCHES BY BOZ. 


tered far more gayly than he ever sees him now, in all 
his rambliiigs — where the sky seemed bluer, and the 
sun shone more brightly — where the air blew more 
freshly over greener grass, and sweeter-smelling flowers 
— where everything wore a richer and more brilliant 
hue than it is ever dressed in now ! Such are the deep 
feelings of childhood, and such are the impressions which 
every lovely object stamps upon its heart ! The hardy 
traveller wanders through the maze of thick and pathless 
woods, where the sun’s rays never shone, and heaven’s 
pure air never played ; he stands on the brink of the 
roaring waterfall, and, giddy and bewildered, watches the 
foaming mass as it leaps from stone to stone, and from 
crag to crag ; he lingers in the fertile plains of a land 
of perpetual sunshine, and revels in the luxury of their 
balmy breath. But what are the deep forests, or the 
thundering watei'S, or the richest landscapes that bounte- 
ous nature ever spread, to charm the eyes, and captivate 
the senses of man, compared with the recollection of the 
old scenes of his early youth ? Magic scenes indeed, for 
the fancies of childhood dressed them in colors brighter 
tlian the rainbow, and almost as fleeting ! 

In former times, spring brought with it not only such 
associations as these, connected with the past, but sports 
and games for the present — merry dances round rustic 
pillars, adorned with emblems of the season, and reared 
in honor of its coming. Where are they now ! Pillars 
we have, but they are no longer rustic ones ; and as to 
dancers, they are used to rooms, and lights, and would 
not show well in the open air. Think of the immorality, 
too ! What would your Sabbath enthusiasts say, to an. 
aristocratic ring encircling the Duke of York’s column 
in Carlton Terrace — a grand of the middle 


227 


THE FIRST OF MAY. 

classes, round Alderman Waithman’s monument in Fleet 
Street, — or a general hands-four-round of ten-pound 
householders, at the foot of the Obelisk in St. George’s 
Fields ? Alas ! romance can make no head against the 
riot act ; and pastoral simplicity is not understood by the 
police. 

Well ; many years ago we began to be a steady and 
matter-of-fact sort of people,*and dancing in spring being 
beneath our dignity, we gave it up, and in course of time 
it descended to the sweeps — a fall certainly, because, 
though sweeps are very good fellows in their way, and 
moreover very useful in a civilized community, they are 
not exactly the sort of people to give the tone to the 
little elegances of society. The sweeps, however, got 
the dancing to themselves, and they kept it up, and 
handed it down. This was a severe blow to the romance 
of spring-time, but, it did not entirely destroy it, either ; 
for a portion of it descended to the sweeps with the 
dancing, and rendered them objects of great interest. A 
mystery hung over the sweeps in those days. Legends 
were in existence of wealthy gentlemen who had lost 
children, and who, after many years of sorrow and suf- 
fering, had found them in the character of sweeps. 
Stories were related of a young boy who, having been 
stolen from his parents in his infancy, and devoted to the 
occupation of chimney-sweeping, was sent, in the course 
of his professional career, to sweep the chimney of his 
mother’s bedroom ; and how, being hot and tired when 
he came out of the chimney, he got into the bed he had 
so often slept in as an infant, and was discovered and 
recognized therein by his mother, who once every year 
of her life, thereafter, requested the pleasure of the 
company of every London sweep, at half-past one 


228 


SKETCHES BY BOZ. 


o’clock, to roast beef, plum-pudding, porter, and six- 
pence. 

Such stories as these, and there were many such, threw 
an air of mystery round the sweeps, and produced for 
them some of those good effects which animals derive 
from the doctrine of the transmigration of souls. No 
one (except the masters) thought of ill-treating a sweep, 
because no one knew who 1ft might be, or what noble- 
man’s or gentleman’s son he might turn out. Chimney- 
sweeping was, by many believers in the marvellous, con- 
sidered as a sort of probationary term, at an earlier or 
later period of which, diyei-s young noblemen were to 
come into possession of their rank and titles ; and the 
profession was held by them in great respect accord- 
ingly. 

We remember, in our young days, a little sweep about 
our own age, with curly hair and whit{3 teeth, whom we 
devoutly and sincerely believed to be the lost son and 
heir of some illustrious personage — an impression which 
was resolved into an unchangeable conviction on our 
infant mind, by the subject of our speculations informing 
us, one day, in reply to our question, propounded a few 
moments before his ascent to the summit of the kitchen 
chimney, “ that he believed he’d been born in the vurkis, 
but he’d never know’d his father.” We felt certain, from 
that time forth, that he would one day be owned by a 
lord ; and we never heard the church-bells ring, or saw 
a flag hoisted in the neighborhood, without thinking that 
the happy event had at last occurred, and that his long- 
lost parent had arrived in a coach and six, to take him 
home to Grosvenor Square. He never came, however ; 
and, at the present moment, the young gentleman in 
question is settled down as a master sweep in the neigh- 


THE FIRST OF MAY. 


229 


borhood of Battle Bridge, his distinguishing character- 
istics being a decided antipathy to washing himself, and 
the possession of a p:iir of legs very inadequate to the 
support of his unwieldly and corpulent body. 

The romance of spring having gone out before our 
time, we were fain to console ourselves as we best could 
with the uncertainty that enveloped the birth and parent- 
age of its attendant dancers, the sweeps ; and we did 
console ourselves .with it, for many years. But, even 
this wretched source of comfort received a shock, from 
which it has never recovered — a shock, which has been, in 
reality, its deatli-blow. We could not disguise from our- 
selves the fact that whole families of sweeps were regu- 
larly born of sweeps, in the rural districts of Somers 
Town and Camden Town — that the eldest son suc- 
ceeded to the father’s business, that the other branches 
assisted him therein, and commenced on their own ac- 
count ; that their children again were educated to the 
profession ; and that about their identity there could be 
no mistake whatever. We could not be blind, we say, 
to this melancholy truth, but we could not bring our- 
selves to admit it, nevertheless, and we lived on for some 
years in a state of voluntaiy ignorance. We were roused 
from our pleasant slumber by certain dark insinuations 
thrown out by a friend of ours, to the effect that chil- 
dren in the lower ranks of life were beginning to choose 
chimney-sweeping as their particular walk ; that appli- 
cations had been made by various boys to the constituted 
authorities, to allow them to pursue the object of their 
ambition with the full concurrence and sanction of the 
law ; that the affair, in short, was becoming one of mere 
legal contract. We turned a deaf ear to these rumors 
at first, but slowly and surely they stole upon us. IMonth 


230 


SKETCHES BY -BOZ. 


after month, week after week, nay, day after day, at last, 
did we meet with accounts of similar applications. The 
veil was removed, all mystery was at an end, and chim- 
ney-sweeping had become a favorite and chosen pursuit. 
There is no longer any occasion to steal boys ; for boys 
dock in crowds to bind themselves. The romance of the 
trade has fled, and the chimney-sweeper of the present 
day is no more like unto him of thirty years ago than 
is a Fleet Street pickpocket to a Spanish brigand, or 
Paul Pry to Caleb Williams. 

This gradual decay and disuse of the practice of lead 
ing noble youths into captivity, and compelling them to 
ascend chimneys, was a severe blow, if we may so speak, 
to the romance of chimney-sweeping, and to the romance 
of spring at the same time. But even this was not all, 
for some few years ago the dancing on May-day began 
to decline ; small sweeps were observed to congregate in 
twos or threes, unsupported by a “ green,’^ with no “ My 
Lord ” to act as master of the ceremonies, and no “ My 
Lady ” to preside over the exchequer. Even in compa- 
nies where there was a green ” it was an absolute 
nothing — a mere sprout — and the instrumental accom- 
paniments rarely extended beyond the shovels and a set of 
Pan-pipes, better known to the many as a “ mouth-organ.” 

These were signs of the times, portentous omens of a 
coming change ; and what was the result which they 
shadowed forth? Why, the master sweeps, influenced 
by a restless spirit of innovation, actually interposed 
their authority, in opposition to the dancing, and substi- 
tuted a dinner — an anniversary dinner at White Conduit 
House — where clean faces appeared in lieu of black ones 
smeared with rose pink ; and knee cords and tops super- 
seded nankeen drawers and rosetted shoes. 


THE FIKST OF MAY. 


231 


Grentlemen who were in the habit of riding shy horses 
and steady-going people, who have no vagrancy in their 
souls, lauded this alteration to the skies, and the conduct 
of the master sweeps was described as beyond the reach 
of praise. But how stands the real fact ? Let any man 
deny, if he can, that when the cloth had been removed, 
fresh pots and pipes laid upon the table, and the custom- 
ary loyal and patriotic toasts proposed, the celebrated Mr. 
Sluffen, of Adam-and-Eve Court, whose authority not 
the most malignant of onr opponents can call in ques- 
tion, expressed himself in a manner following : ‘‘ That 
now he’d cotcht the cheerman’s hi, he vished he might be 
jolly veil blessed, if he worn’t agoin’ to have his innings, 
vich he vould say these here obserwashuns — that how 
some mischeevns coves as know’d nuffin about the con- 
earn, liad tried to sit people agin the mas’r swips, and 
take the shine out o’ their bis’nes, and the bread out o’ 
the traps o’ their preshus kids, by a’ makin’ o’ this here 
remark, as chimblies could be as veil svept by ’sheen (iry 
as by boys ; and tliat the makin’ use o’ boys for that there 
purpuss VOS barbareous ; vereas, he ’ad been a chummy — 
he begged the cheerman’s parding for usin’ such a wulgar 
hexpression — more nor thirty year — he might say he’d 
been born in a chimbley — and he know'd uncommon veil 
RS ’sheenery vos vus nor o’ no use : and as to kerhewelty 
to the boys, eveiy body in the chimbley line know’d as 
veil as he did, that they liked the climbin’ better nor 
nuffin as vos.” From this day, we date the total fall of 
the last lingering remnant of May-day dancing, among 
the Uite of the profession : and from this period we com- 
mence a new era in that portion of our spring associa- 
tions, which relates to the 1st of May. 

We are aware that the unthinking part of the popula- 


232 


SKETCHES BY BOZ. 


tion will meet us here with the assertion, that dancing 
on May-day still continues — that “ greens ” are annually 
seen to roll along the streets — that youths, in the garb 
of clowns, precede them, giving vent to the ebullitions of 
their sportive fancies ; and that lords and ladies follow in 
their wake. 

Granted. We are ready to acknowledge that in out- 
ward show, these processions have greatly improved : we 
do not deny the introduction of solos on the drum ; we 
will even go so far as to admit an occasional fantasia on 
the triangle, but here our admissions end. We positively 
deny that the sweeps have art or part in these proceedings. 
We distinctly charge the dustmen with throwing what 
they ought to clear away, into the eyes of the public. 
We accuse scavengers, brickmakers, and gentlemen who 
devote their energies to the costermongering line, with 
obtaining money once a-year, under false pretences. We 
cling with peculiar fondness to the custom of days gone by, 
and have shut out conviction as long as we could, but it 
has forced itself upon us ; and we now proclaim to a de- 
luded public, that the INIay-day dancers are not sweeps. 
The size of them, alone, is sufficient to repudiate the 
idea. It is a notorious fact that the widely spread taste 
for register-stoves has materially increased the demand 
for small boys ; whereas the men, who, under a fictitious 
character, dance about the streets on the first of May 
nowadays, would be a tight fit in a kitchen-fine, to say 
nothing of the parlor. This is strong presumptive evi- 
dence, but we have positive proof - — the evidence of our 
own senses. And here is our testimony. 

Upon the morning of the second of the merry month 
of May, in the year of our Lord one thousand eight hun- 
dred and thirty-six, we went out for a stroll, with a kind 


THE FIRST OF MAY. 


233 


of forlorn hope of seeing something or other which might 
induce us to believe that it was really spring, and not 
Christmas. After wandering as far as Copenhagen House, 
without meeting anything calculated to dispel our impres- 
sion that there was a mistake in the almanacs, we turned 
back down Maiden Lane, with the intention of passing 
through the extensive colony lying between it and Battle 
Bridge, which is inhabited by proprietoi’S of donkey-carts, 
boilers of horseflesh, makers of tiles, and sifters of cin- 
ders ; through which colony we should have passed, 
without stoppage or interruption, if a little crowd gath- 
ered round a shed had not attracted our artention, and 
induced us to pause. 

When we say a “ shed,” we do not mean the conserva- 
tory sort of building, which, according to the old song, 
Lov’e tenanted when he was a young man, but a wooden 
house with windows stuffed with rags and paper, and a 
small yard at the side, with one dust-cart, two baskets, a 
lew shovels, and little heaps of cinders, and fragments of 
china and tiles, scattered about it. Before this inviting 
spot we paused ; and the longer we looked, the more we 
wondered what exciting circumstance it could be, that 
induced the foremost members of the crowd to flatten 
their noses against the parlor-window, in the vain hope 
of catching a glimpse of what was going on inside. 
After staring vacantly about us for some minutes, we 
appealed, touching the cause of this assemblage, to a 
gentleman in a suit of tarpauling, who was smoking his 
. ipe on our right hand ; but as the only answer we ob- 
tained was a playful inquiry w hether our mother had dis- 
posed of her mangle, we determined to await the issue in 
silence. 

Judge of our virtuous indignation, when the street-dooi 


234 


SKETCHES BY BOZ. 


of the shed opened, and a party emerged therefrom, clad 
in the costume and emulating the appearance, of May-day 
sweeps ! 

The first person who appeared was “ my lord,” habited 
in a blue coat and bright buttons, with gilt paper tacked 
over the seams, yellow knee-breeches, pink cotton stock- 
ings, and shoes ; a cocked hat, ornamented with shreds 
of various-colored paper, on his head, a bouquet, the size 
of a prize cauliflower in his buttonhole, a long Belcher 
handkerchief in his right hand, and a thin cane in his left, 
A murmur of applause ran through the crowd (which 
was chiefly composed of his lordship’s personal friends), 
when this graceful figure made his appearance, which 
swelled into a burst of applause as his fair partner in the 
dance bounded forth to join him. Her ladyship w^as at- 
tired in pink crape over bed-furniture, with a low body 
and short sleeves. The symmetry of her ankles was 
partially concealed by a very perceptible pair of frilled 
trousers ; and the inconvenience wliich might have re- 
sulted from the circumstance of her white satin shoes 
being a few sizes too large, was obviated by their being 
firmly attached to her legs with strong tape sandals. 

Her head was ornamented with a profusion of artificial 
flowers ; and in her hand she bore a large brass ladle, 
wherein to receive what she figuratively denominated 
“ the tin.” The other characters were a young gentle- 
man in girl’s clothes and a widow’s cap ; two clowns who 
walked upon their hands in the mud, to the immeasurable 
delight of all the spectators ; a man with a drum ; an- 
other man with a flageolet ; a dirty woman in a large 
shawl, with a box under her arm for the money, — and 
last, though not least, the “ green,” animated by no less a 
personage than our identical friend in the tarpauling suit. 


BROKERS' AND MARINE-STORE SHOPS. 


235 


The man hammered away at the drum, the flageolet 
squeaked, the shovels rattled, the “ green ” rolled about, 
pitching first on one side and then on the other ; my lady 
threw her right foot over her left ankle, and her left foot 
over her right ankle, alternately ; my lord ran a few 
paces forward, and butted at the “ green,” and then a 
few paces backward upon the toes of the crowd, and then 
went to the right, and then to the left, and then dodged 
my lady round the “ green ; ” and finally drew her arm 
through his, and called upon the boys to shout, which 
they did lustily — for this was the dancing. 

We passed the same group, accidentally, in the even- 
ing. We never saAv a “ green ” so drunk, a lord so 
quarrelsome (no : not even in the house of peers after 
dinner), a pair of clowns so melancholy, a lady so muddy, 
or a party so miserable. 

How has May-day decayed ! 


C^IAPTER XXL 
brokers’ and marine-store shops. 

When we affirm that brokers’ shops are strange places, 
and that if an authentic history of their contents could be 
procured, it would furnish many a page of amusement, 
and many a melancholy tale, it is necessary to explain the 
class of shops to which we allude. Perhaps when we 
make use of the term “ Brokers’ Shop,” the minds of our 
readers will at once picture large, handsome warehouses, 
exhibiting a long perspective of French-polished dining- 


23G 


SKETCIIKS BY BOZ. 


tables, rosewood chiffoniers, and mahogany wash-hand- 
stands, with an occasional vista of a four-post bedstead 
and hangings, and an appropriate foreground of dining- 
room chairs. Perhaps they will imagine that we mean 
an humble class of second-hand furniture repositories. 
Their imagination will then naturally lead them to that 
street at the back of Long Acre, which is composed 
almost entirely of brokers’ shops ; where you walk 
through groves of deceitful, showy looking furniture, and 
where the prospect is occasionally enlivened by a bright 
red, blue, and yellow hearth-rug, embellished with the 
pleasing device of a mail-coach at full speed, or a strange 
animal, supposed to have been originally intended for a 
dog, with a mass of worsted-work in his mouth, which 
conjecture has likened to a basket of flowers. 

This, by the by, is a tempting article to young wives 
in the humbler ranks of life, who have a first floor-front 
to furnish — they are lost in admiration, and hardly 
know which to admire most. ^ The dog is very beautiful, 
but they have a dog already on the best tea-tray, and 
two more on the mantel-piece. Then, there is some- 
thing so genteel about that mail-coach ; and the passen- 
gers outside (who are all hat) give it such an air of 
reality ! 

The goods here are adapted to the taste, or rather to 
the means, of cheap purchasers. There are some of the 
most beautiful looking Pembroke tables that were ever 
beheld : the Avood as green as the trees in the Park, and 
the leaves almost as certain to fall off in the course of a 
year. There is also a most extensive assortment of tent 
and turn-up bedsteads, made of stained Avood ; and in- 
numerable specimens of that base imposition on society 
— - a sofa bedstead. 


BROKERS’ AND MARINE-STORE SHOPS. 237 


A turn-up bedstead is a blunt, honest piece of furni- 
ture ; it may be slightly disguised with a sham drawer , 
and sometimes a mad attempt is even made to pass it off 
for a bookcase ; ornament it as you will, however, the 
turn-up bedstead seems to defy disguise, and to insist on 
having it distinctly understood that he is a turn-up bed- 
stead, and nothing else — that he is indispensably neces- 
sary, and that being so useful, he disdains to be orna- 
mental. 

How different is the demeanor of a sofa bedstead ! 
Ashamed of its real use, it strives to appear an article 
of luxury and gentility — an attempt in which it miser- 
ably fails. It has neither the respectability of a sofa, nor 
the virtues of a bed ; every man who keeps a sofa bed- 
stead in his house, becomes a party to a wilful and de- 
signing fraud — we question whether you could insult 
him more, than by insinuating that you entertain the 
least suspicion of its real use. 

To return from this digression, we beg to say, that 
neither of these classes of brokers’ shops, form the sub- 
ject of this sketch. The shops to which we advert, are 
immeasurably inferior to those on whose outward appear- 
ance we have slightly touched. Our readers must often 
have observed in some by-street, in a poor neighborhood, 
a small dirty shop, exposing for sale the most extraordi- 
nary and confused jumble of old, worn-out, wretched 
articles, that can well be imagined. Our wonder at their 
ever having been bought, is only to be equalled by our 
astonishment at the idea of their ever being sold again. 
On a board, at the side of the door, are placed about 
twenty books — all odd volumes ; and as many wine- 
glasses — all different patterns ; several locks, an old 
earthenware pan, full of rusty keys ; two or three gaudy 


238 


SKETCHES BY BOZ. 


ohimney-ornaments — cracked, of course ; the remains 
of a lustre, without any drops ; a round frame like a 
capital O, which has once held a mirror ; a flute, com- 
plete with the exception of the middle joint ; a pair of 
curling-irons ; .and a tinder-box. In front of the shop- 
window, are ranged some half dozen high-backed chairs, 
with spinal complaints and wasted legs ; a corner cup- 
board ; two or three very dark mahogany tables with flaps 
like mathematical problems ; some pickle-jars, some sur- 
geons’ ditto, with gilt labels and without stoppers ; an 
unframed portrait of some lady who flourished about the 
beginning of the thirteenth century, by an artist who 
never flourished at all ; an incalculable host of miscel- 
lanies of every description, including bottles and cabinets, 
rags and bones, fenders and street-door knockers, fire- 
irons, wearing-apparel and bedding, a hall-lamp, and a 
room-door. Imagine, in addition to this incongruous 
mass, a black doll in a white frock, with two faces — one 
looking up the street, and the other looking down, swing- 
ing over the door ; a board with the squeezed-up inscrip- 
tion ‘‘ Dealer in marine stores,” in lanky white letters, 
whose height is strangly out of proportion to their width ; 
and you have before you precisely the kind of shop to 
wdiich we wish to direct your attention. 

Although the same heterogeneous mixture of things 
^\ill be found at all these places, it is curious to observe 
how truly and accurately some of the minor articles 
which are exposed for sale — articles of wearing-apparel, 
for instance — mark the character of the neighborhood. 
Take Drury Lane and Covent Garden for example. 

This is essentially a theatrical neighborhood. There 
is not a potboy in the vicinity who is not, to a greater or 
less extent, a dramatic character. The errand-boys and 


BROKERS’ AND MARINE-STORE SHOPS. 239 

chandler s shop-keepers’ sons, are all stage-struck ; they 
get up ” plays in back kitchens hired for the purpose, 
and will stand before a shop-window for hours, contem- 
plating a great staring portrait of Mr. somebody or other, 
of the Royal Coburg Theatre, “ as he appeared in the 
character of Tongo the Denounced.” The consequence is, 
that there is not a marine-store shop in the neighborhood, 
w’hich does not exhibit for sale some faded articles of 
dramatic finery, such as three or four pairs of soiled buff 
boots with turn-over red tops, heretofore worn by a 
fourth robber,” or fifth mob ; ” a pair of rusty broad- 
swords, a few gauntlets, and certain resplendent orna- 
ments, which, if they were yellow instead of white, 
might be taken for insurance plated of the Sun Fire 
Office. There are several of these shops in the nar- 
row streets and dirty courts, of which there are so many 
near the national theatres, and they all have tempting 
goods of this description, with the addition, perhaps, of a 
lady’s pink dress covered with spangles ; white wreaths, 
stage shoes, and a tiara like a tin lamp reflector. They 
have been purchased of some wretched supernumeraries, 
or sixth-rate actors, and are now offered for the benefit 
of the rising generation, who, on condition of making 
certain weekly payments, amounting in the whole to 
about ten times their value, may avail themselves of such 
desirable bargains. 

Let us take a very different quarter, and apply it to 
the same test. Look at a marine-store dealer’s, in that 
reservoir of dirt, drunkenness, and drabs : thieves, oys- 
ters, baked potatoes, and pickled salmon — Ratcliff* High- 
way. Here, the wearing-apparel is all nautical. Rough 
blue jackets, with mother-of-pearl buttons, oil-skin hats, 
coarse checked shirts, and large canvas trousers that 


240 


SKETCHES BY BOZ. 


look as if they were made for a pair of bodies instead of 
a pair of legs, are the staple commodities. Then, there 
are large bunches of cotton pocket-handkerchiefs, in color 
and pattern unlike any, one ever saw before, with the 
exception of those on the backs of the three young ladies 
without bonnets who passed just now. The furniture is 
much the same as elsewhere, with the addition of one or 
two models of ships, and some old prints of naval en- 
gagements in still older frames. In the window, are a 
few compasses, a small tray containing silver watches in 
clumsy thick cases ; and tobacco-boxes, the lid of each 
ornamented with a ship, or an anchor, or some such trophy. 
A sailor generally pawns or sells all he has before he has 
been long ashore, and if he does not, some favored com- 
panion kindly saves him the trouble. In either case, it 
is an even chance that lie afterwards unconsciously re- 
purchases the same tilings at a higher price than he gave 
for them at first. 

Again : pay a visit with a similar object, to a part of 
London, as unlike both of these as they are to each other. 
Cross over to the Surrey side, and look at such shops of 
this description as are to be found near the King’s Bench 
prison, and in “ the Kules.” How different, and how 
strikingly illustrative of the decay of some of the unfor- 
tunate residents in this part of the metropolis I Im- 
prisonment and neglect have done their work. There is 
contamination in the profligate denizens of a debtor’s 
prison ; old friends have fallen off ; the recollection of 
former prosperity has passed away ; and with it all 
thoughts for the past, all care for the future. First, 
watches and rings, then cloaks, coats, and all the more 
expensive articles of dress, have found their way to the 
pawnbroker’s. That miserable resource has failed at last, 


GIX-SHOPS. 


241 


and the sale of some trifling article at one of these 
shops, has been the only mode left of raising a shilling 
or two, to meet the urgent demands of the moment. 
Dressing-cases and writing-desks, too old to pawn but 
too good to keep ; guns, fishing-rods, musical instru- 
ments, all in the same condition ; have first been soh^, 
and the sacrifice has been but slightly felt. But, hunger 
must be allayed, and what has already become a habit, is 
easily resorted to, when an emergency arises. Light 
articles of clothing, first of the ruined man, then of his 
wife, at last of their children, even of the youngest, have 
been parted with, piecemeal. There they are, thrown 
carelessly together until a purchaser presents himself, 
old, and patched and repaired, it is true ; but the make 
and materials tell of better days ; and the older they are, 
the greater the misery and destitution of those whom 
they once adorned. 


CHAPTER XXII. 

GIN-SHOPS. 

It is a remarkable circumstance, that different trad<.‘S 
appear to partake of the disease to which elephants and 
dogs are especially liable, and to run stark, staring, rav- 
ing mad, periodically. The great distinction between the 
animals and the trades, is, that the former run mad with 
a certain degree of propriety — they are very regular in 
their irregularities. We know the period at which the 
emergency will arise, and provide against it accordingly. 
16 


VOL. I. 


242 


SKETCHES BY BOZ. 


If an elephant run mad, we are all ready for him — kill 
or cure — pills or bullets — calomel in conserve of roses, 
or lead in a musket-barrel. If a dog happen to look 
unpleasantly warm in the summer months, and to trot 
about the shady side of the streets Avith a quarter of a 
yard of tongue hanging out of his mouth, a thick leather 
muzzle, which has been previously prepared in compli- 
ance with the thoughtful injunctions of the Legislature, 
is instantly clapped over his head, by way of making him 
cooler, and he either looks remarkably unhappy for the 
next six weeks, or becomes legally insane, and goes mad, 
as it were, by act of Parliament. But these 'trades are 
as eccentric as comets ; nay, worse, for no one can calcu- 
late on the recurrence of the strange appearances which 
betoken the disease. Moreover, the contagion is general, 
and the quickness with which it diffuses itself, almost 
incredible. 

We will cite two or three cases in illustration of our 
meaning. Six or eight years ago, the epidemic began to 
display itself among the linen-drapers and haberdashers. 
The primary symptoms were an inordinate love of plate- 
glass, and a passion for gas-lights and gilding, The dis- 
ease gradually progressed, and at last attained a feai’ful 
height. Quiet dusty old shops in different parts of toAvn, 
were pulled down ; spacious premises with stuccoed fronts 
and gold letters, were erected instead ; floors were coh - 
ered with Turkey carpets ; roofs, supported by massive 
pillars ; doors, knocked into windows ; a dozen squares 
of glass into one ; one shopman into a dozen ; and there 
is no knowing what would have been done, if it had not 
been fortunately discovered, just in time, that the Com- 
missioners of Bankrupt were as competent to decide such 
cases as the Commissioners of Lunacy, and that a little 


GIN-SHOPS. 


243 


confinement and gentle examination did wonders. The 
disease abated. It died away. A year or two of com- 
parative tranquillity ensued. Suddenly it burst out again 
among the chemists ; the symptoms were the same, with 
the addition of a strong desire to stick the royal arms 
over the shop-door, and a great rage for mahogany, var- 
nish, and expensive floor-cloth. Then, the hosiers were 
infected, and began to pull down their shop-fronts with 
frantic recklessness. The mania again died away, and 
the public began to congratulate themselves on its entire 
disappearance, when it burst forth with tenfold violence 
among the publicans, and keepers of “ wine-vaults.” From 
that moment it has spread among them with unprece- 
dented rapidity, exhibiting a concatenation of all the pre- 
vious symptoms ; onward it has rushed to every part of 
town, knocking down all the old public-houses, and de- 
positing splendid mansions, stone balustrades, rosewood 
fittings, immense lamps, and illuminated clocks, at the 
corner of every street. 

The extensive scale on which these places are estab- 
lished, and the ostentatious manner in which the business 
of even the smallest among them is divided into branches, 
is amusing. A handsome plate of ground glass in one 
door directs you “ To the Counting-house ; ” another to 
the “ Bottle Department ; ” a third to the “ Wholesale 
Department ; ” a fourth to “ The Wine Promenade ; ” 
and so forth, until we are in daily expectation of meeting 
with a “ Brandy Bell,” or a “Whisky Entrance.” Then, 
ingenuity is exhausted in devising attractive titles for the 
different descriptions of gin ; and the dram-drinking por- 
tion of the community as tliey gaze upon the gigantic 
black and white announcements, which are only to be 
equalled in size by the figures beneath them, are left in 


244 


SKETCHES BY BOZ. 


a state of pleasing hesitation between ‘‘ The Cream of 
the Valley,” ‘‘ The Out and Out,” ‘‘ The No Mistake,” 
‘‘ The Good for Mixing,” “ The real Knock-m e-down,” 
“ The celebrated Butter Gin,” ‘‘ The regular Flare-up,” 
and a dozen other equally inviting and Avholesonie 
liqueurs. Although places of this description are to 
be met with in every second street, they are invariably 
numerous and splendid in precise proportion to the dirt 
and poverty of the surrounding neighborhood. The gin- 
shops in and near Diairy Lane, Holborn, St. Giles's, 
Covent Garden, and Clare Market, are the handsomest 
in London. There is more of filth and squalid misery 
near those great thoroughfores than in any part of tliis 
mighty city. 

We will endeavor to sketch the bar of a large gin- 
shop, and its ordinary customers, for the edification of 
such of our readers as may not have had opportunities 
of observing such scenes ; and on the chance of finding 
one well suited to our purpose, we will make for Drury 
Lane, through the narrow streets and dirty courts which 
divide it from Oxford Street, and that classical spot 
adjoining the brewery at the bottom of Tottenham Court 
Road, best known to the initiated as the “ Rookery.” 

The filthy and miserable appearance of this part of 
London can hardly be imagined by those (and there are 
many such) who have not witnessed it. Wretched houses 
with broken windows patched with rags and paper : every 
room let out to a different family, and in many instances 
to two or even three — fruit and “sweet stuff ” manu- 
facturers in the cellars, barbers and red-herring venders 
in the front parlors, cobblei'J^ in the back ; a bird-fancier 
in the first floor, three families on the second, starvation 
in the attics, Irishmen in the passage, a “ musician ” in 


GIN-SHOPS. 


245 


the front kitchen, and a charwoman and five hungry 
children in the back one — filth everywhere — a gutter 
before the houses, and a drain behind — clothes drying 
and slops emptying, from the windows ; girls of fourteen 
or fifteen with matted hair, walking about barefoot, and 
in white great-coats, almost their only covering ; boys of 
all ages, in coats of all sizes and no coats at all ; men 
and women, in every variety of scanty and dirty apparel, 
lounging, scolding, drinking, smoking, squabbling, fight- 
ing, and swearing. 

You turn the corner. What a change ! All is light 
and brilliancy. The hum of many voices issues from 
that splendid gin-shop which forms the commencement 
'of the two streets opposite ; and the gay building with 
the fantastically ornamented parapet, the illuminated 
clock, the plate-glass windows surrounded by stucco 
rosettes, and its profusion of gas-lights in richly gilt 
burners, is perfectly dazzling when contrasted with the 
darkness and dirt we have just left. The interior is 
even gayer than the exterior. A bar of French-polished 
mahogany, elegantly carved, extends the whole width of 
the place ; and there are two side-aisles of great casks, 
painted green and gold, enclosed within a light brass 
rail, and bearing such inscriptions as “ Old Tom, 549 ; 
“Young Tom, 3G0;” “Samson, 1421” — the figures 
agreeing, we presume, with “gallons,” understood. Be- 
yond the bar is a lofty and spacious saloon, full of the 
same enticing vessels, with a gallery running round it, 
equally well furnished. On the counter, in addition to 
the usual spirit apparatus, are two or three little baskets 
of cakes and biscuits, which are carefully secured at top 
with wicker-work, to prevent their contents being unlaw- 
fully abstracted. Behind it, are two showily dressed 


246 


SKETCHES BY BOZ. 


damsels with large necklaces, dispensing the spirits and 
compounds.” They are assisted by the ostensible pro- 
prietor of the concern, a stout coarse fellow in a fur cap, 
put on very much on one side to give him a knowing air, 
and to display his sandy whiskers to the best advantage. 

The two old washerwomen, who are seated on the little 
bench to the left of the bar, are rather overcome by the 
head-dresses and haughty demeanor of the young ladies 
who officiate. They receive their half-quartern of gin 
and peppermint with considerable deference, prefacing a 
request for “ one of them soft biscuits,” with a “ Jist be 
good enough, ma’am.” They are quite astonished at the 
impudent air of the young fellow in a brown coat and 
bright buttons, who, ushering in his two companions, and 
walking up to the bar in as careless a manner as if he 
had been used to green and gold ornaments all his life, 
winks at one of the young ladies with singular coolness, 
and calls for a “ kervorten and a three-out glass,” just as 
if the place were his own. “ Gin for you, sir ? ” says 
the young lady when she has drawn it : carefully looking 
every way but the right one, to show that the wink had 
no effect upon her. ‘‘ For me, Mary, my dear,” replies 
the gentleman in brown. “ My name a’n’t Mary, as it 
happens,” says the young girl, rather relaxing as she 
delivers the change. “ Well, if it a’n’t, it ought to be,” 
responds the irresistible one ; “ all the Marys as ever I 
see, was handsome gals.” Here the young lady, not pre- 
cisely remembering how blushes are managed in such 
cases, abruptly ends the flirtation by addressing the 
female in the faded feathers who has just entered, and 
who, after stating explicitly, to prevent any subsequent 
misunderstanding, that “ this gentleman pays,” calls for 
a glass of port-wine and a bit of sugar.” 


GIN-SHUPS. 


247 


Those two old men who came in ‘‘just to have a drain/' 
finished their third quartern a few seconds ago ; they have 
made themselves crying drunk ; and the fat comfortable- 
looking elderly women, who ha^ “ a glass of rum srub ” 
each, having chimed in with their complaints, on the hard- 
ness of the times, one of the women has agreed to stand 
a glass round, jocularly observing that “ grief never 
mended no b^-oken bones, and as good people’s wery 
scaroe, what I says is, make the most on ’em, and that’s 
all about it ! ” a sentiment which appears to afford unlim- 
ited satisfaction to those who have nothing to pay. 

It is growing late, and the throng of men, women, and 
children, who have been constantly going in and out, 
dwindles down to two or three occasional stragglers — 
cold, wretched-looking creatures, in the last stage of 
emaciation and disease. The knot of Irish laborers at 
the lower end of the place, who have been alternately 
shaking hands with, and threatening the life of each 
other, for the last hour, become furious in their disputes, 
and finding it impossible to silence one man, who- is par- 
ticularly anxious to adjust the difference, they resort to 
the expedient of knocking him down and jumping on him 
afterwards. The man in the fur cap and the potboy 
rush out ; a scene of riot and confusion ensues ; half 
the Irishmen get shut out, and the other half get shut 
in ; the potbo}^ is knocked among the tubs in no time ; 
the landlord hits everybody, and everybody hits the land- 
lord ; the barmaids scream; the police come in; the rest 
is a confused mixture of arms, legs, staves, torn coats, 
shouting, and struggling. Some of the party are borne 
off to the station-house, and the remainder slink home to 
beat their wives for complaining, and kick the children 
for daring to be hungry. 


248 


SKETCHES BY BOZ. 


We have sketched this subject very slightly, not only 
because our limits compel us to do so, but because, if it 
were pursued farther, it would' be painful and repulsive. 
Well-disposed gentlemen, and charitable ladies, would 
alike turn with coldness and disgust from a description 
of the drunken besotted men, and wretched broken-down 
miserable women, who form no inconsiderable portion of 
the frequenters of these haunts ; forgetting, in the pleas- 
ant consciousness of their own rectitude, the poverty of 
the one, and the temptation of the other. Gin -drinking 
is a great vice in England, but wretchedness and dirt are 
a greater ; and until you improve the homes of the poor, 
or persuade a half-famished wretch not to seek relief in 
the temporary oblivion of his own misery, with the pit- 
tance which, divided among his family, would furnish a 
morsel of bread for each, gin-shops will increase in num- 
ber and splendor. If Temperance Societies would sug- 
gest an antidote against hunger, filth, and foul air, or 
could establish dispensaries for the gratuitous distribution 
of bottles of Lethe-water, gin-palaces would be numbered 
among the things that were. 


CHAPTER XXIII. 

THE pawnbroker's SHOP. 

Of the numerous receptacles for misery and distress 
with which the streets of London unhappily abound, 
there are, perhaps, none which present such striking 
scenes as the pawnbrokers’ shops. The very iiaiure and 


THE PAWNBROKER’S SHOP. 


24S 


(lesci iption of these places occasions their being but little 
known, except to the unfortunate beings whose profligacy 
or misfortune drives them to seek the temporary relief 
they offer. The subject may appear, at first sight, to be 
anything but an inviting one, but we venture on it liOver- 
theless, in the hope that, as far as the limits of our pres- 
ent paper are concerned, it will present nothing to disgust, 
even the most fastidious reader. 

There are some pawnbrokers’ shops of a very superior 
description. There are grades in pawning as in every- 
thing else, and distinctions must be observed even in 
poverty. The aristocratic Spanish cloak and the plebeian 
calico shirt, the silver fork, and the flat-iron, the muslin 
cravat and the Belcher neckerchief, would but ill assort 
together ; so, the better sort of pawnbroker calls himself a 
silversmith, and decorates his shop with handsome trin- 
kets and expensive jewellery, while the more humble 
money lender boldly advertises his calling, and invites 
observation. It is with pawnbrokers’ shops of the latter 
class, that we have to do. We have selected one for 
our purpose, and will endeavor to describe it. 

The pawnbroker’s shop is situated near Drury Lane, 
at the corner of a court, which affords a side entrance 
lor the accommodation of such customers as may be de- 
sirous of avoiding the observation of the passers-by, or 
the chance of recognition in the public street. It is a 
low, dirty looking, dusty shop, the door of which stands 
always doubtfully, a little way open : half inviting, half 
repelling the hesitating visitor, who, if he be as yet unini- 
tiated, examines one of the old garnet brooches in the 
window for a minute or two with affected eagerness, as 
if he contemplated making a purchase ; and then looking 
raiitioiisly round to ascertain that no one watches him, 


250 


SKETCHES BY BOZ. 


hastily slinks in ; the door closing of itself after him, to 
just its former width. The shop front and the window 
frames bear evident marks of having been once painted ; 
bat, what the color was originally, or at what date it 
was probably laid on, are at this remote period questions 
wliich may be asked, but cannot be answered. Tradition 
states that the transparency in the front-door which dis- 
plays at night three red balls on a blue ground, once bore 
also, inscribed in graceful waves, the words “ Money 
advanced on plate, jewels, wearing apparel, and every 
description of property,” but a few illegible hieroglyphics 
are all that now remain to attest the fact. The plate and 
jewels would seem to have disappeared, together with the 
announcement, for the articles of stock, which are dis- 
played in some profusion in the window, do not include 
any very valuable luxuries of either kind. A few old 
china cups ; some modern vases, adorned wdth paltry 
paintings of three Spanish cavaliers playing three Span- 
ish guitars ; or a party of boors carousing : each boor 
with one leg painfully elevated in the air, by way of 
expressing his perfect freedom and gayety ; several sets 
of chessmen, two or three flutes, a few fiddles, a round- 
eyed portrait staring in astonishment from a very dark 
ground ; some gaudily bound prayer-books and testa- 
ments, two rows of silver watches quite as clumsy and 
almost as large as Ferguson’s first ; numerous old-fash- 
ioned table and tea-spoons, displayed, fan-like, in 
half-dozens ; strings of coral with great broad gilt snaps ; 
cards of rings and brooches, fastened and labelled sepa- 
rately, like the insects in the British Museum ; cheap 
silver penholders and snuff-boxes, with a masonic star, 
complete the jewellery department ; while five or six 
beds iu smeary clouded ticks, strings of blankets and 


THE PAWKBROKEK’tS SHOP. 


251 


sheets, silk and cotton handkerchiefs, and wearing ap- 
parel of every description, form the more useful, though 
even less ornamental, part, of the articles exposed for sale 
An extensive collection of planes, chisels, saws, and other 
carpenters’ tools, which have been pledged, and never re- 
deemed, form the foreground of the picture ; while the 
large frames full of ticketed bundles, which are dimly 
seen through the dirty casement up-stairs — the squalid 
neighborhood — the adjoining houses, straggling, shrunk- 
en, and rotten, with one or two filthy, unwholesome-look- 
ing heads, thrust out of every window, and old red pans 
and stunted plants exposed on the tottering parapets, to 
the manifest hazard of the heads of the passers-by — 
the noisy men loitering under the archway at the corner 
of the court, or about the gin-shop next door — and their 
wives patiently standing on the curb-stone, with large 
baskets of cheap vegetables slung round them for sale, 
are its immediate auxiliaries. 

If the outside of the pawnbroker’s shop be calculated 
to attract the attention, or excite the interest, of the spec- 
ulative pedestrian, its interior cannot fail to produce the 
same effect in an increased degree. The front-dooi-, 
which we have before noticed, opens into the common 
shop, which is the resort of all those customers whose 
habitual acquaintance with such scenes renders them in- 
different to the observation of their companions in pov- 
erty. The side-door opens into a small passage from 
which some half-dozen doors (which may be secured on 
the inside by bolts) open into a corresponding number of 
little dens, or closets, which face the counter. Here, the 
more timid or respectable portion of the crowd shroud 
themselves from the notice of the remainder, and pa- 
tiently wait until the gentleman behind the counter, with 


252 


SKETCHES BY BOZ. 


the curly black hair, diamond ring, and double silver 
watchguard shall feel disposed to favor them with his 
notice — a consummation which depends considerably 
on the temper of the aforesaid gentleman for the time 
being. 

At the present moment, this elegantly attired individ- 
ual is in the act of entering the duplicate he has just made 
out, in a thick book ; a process from which he is diverted 
occasionally, by a conversation he is carrying on with an- 
other young man similarly employed at a little distance 
from him, whose allusions to “ that last bottle of soda- 
water last night,” and “ how regularly round my hat he 
felt himself when the young ’ooman gave ’em in charge,” 
Avould appear to refer to the consequences of some stolen 
joviality of the preceding evening. The customers gen- 
erally, however, seem unable to participate in the amuse- 
ment derivable from this source, for an old sallow-looking 
woman, who has been leaning witli both arms on tlie 
counter with a small bundle before her, for half an hour 
previously, suddenly interrupts the conversation by ad- 
dressing the jewelled shopman — “ Now, Mr. Henry, do 
make haste, there’s a good soul, for my two grandchil- 
dren’s locked up at home, and I’m afeerd of the fire.” 
The shopman slightly raises liis head, with an air of deep 
abstraction, and resumes his entry with as much delibera- 
tion as if he were engraving. “ You’re in a hurry, Mrs. 
Tatham, this ev’iiin’, a’li’t you ? ” is the only notice he 
deigns to take, after the lapse of five minutes or so. 
“ Yes, I am indeed, Mr. Henry ; now, do serve me next, 
there’s a good creetur. I wouldn’t worry you, only it’s 
all along o’ them botherin’ children.” “ What have you 
got here?” inquires the shopman, unpinning the bundle 
— ‘‘ old concern, I suppose — pair o’ stays and a petticut. 


THE PAWXlJKOKEirS SHOP. 


258 


You must look up somethin’ else, old ’ooman ; T can’t 
lend you anything more upon them, they’re completely 
'worn out by this time, if it’s only by putting in, and tak- 
ing out again, three times a week.” ‘‘ Oh ! you’re a rum 
nn, you are,” replies the old woman, laugliing extremely, 
as in duty bound ; “ I 'wish I’d got the gift of the gab 
like you ; see if I’d be up the spout so often then ! No, 
no ; it a’n’t the petticut ; it’s a child’s frock and a beauti- 
ful silk-ankecher, as belongs to my husband. He gaV6 
four shillin’ for it, the werry same blessed day as he 
broke his arm.” — “ What do you want upon these ?^’ in- 
quires Mr. Henry, slightly glancing at the articles, which 
in all probability are old acquaintances. “ What do you 
want upon these ? ” — “ Eighteen-pence.” — “ Lend you 
ninepence.” — “ Oh, make it a shillin’ ; there’s a dear — 
do now ! ” — “ Not another farden.” — “ Well, I suppose 
I must take it.” The duplicate is made out, one ticket 
pinned on the parcel, the other given to the old woman ; 
the parcel is flung carelessly down into a corner, and 
some other customer prefers his claim to be served with- 
out further delay. 

The choice falls on an unshaven, dirty, sottish-looking 
fellow, whose tarnished paper cap, stuck negligently over 
one eye, communicates an additionally repulsive expres- 
sion to his very uninviting countenance. He was en- 
joying a little relaxation from his sedentary pursuits a 
quarter of an hour ago, in kicking his wife up the court. 
He has come to redeem some tools : — probably to com- 
plete a job with, on account of which he has already 
I’eceived some money, if his inflamed countenance and 
drunken stagger may be taken as evidence of the fact. 
Having waited some little time, he makes his presence 
known by venting his ill-humor on a ragged urchin, who, 


254 


SKETCHES BY BOZ. 


being unable to bring his face on a level with the coun- 
ter by any other process, has employed himself in climb- 
ing up, and then hooking himself on wdth his elbows — ■ 
an uneasy perch, from which he has fallen at intervals, 
generally alighting on the toes of the person in his im- 
mediate vicinity. In the present case, the unfortunate 
little wretch has received a cuff which sends him reeling 
to the door ; and the donor of the blow is immediately 
^le object of general indignation. 

“What do you strike the boy for, you brute ex- 
claims a slip-shod woman, with two flat-irons in a little 
basket. “ Do you think he’s your wife, you willin ? ” — 
“ Go and hang yourself! ” replies the gentleman ad- 
dressed, with a drunken look of savage stupidity, aiming 
at the same time a blow at the woman which fortunately 
misses its object. “ Go and hang yourself ; and wait till 
I come and cut you down.” — “ Cut you down,” rejoins 
the woman, “ I wish I had the cutting of you up, you 
■^yagabond I (loud.) Oh ! you precious wagabond ! (rather 
louder.) Where’s your wdfe, you willin ? (louder still ; 
women of this class are always sympathetic, and work 
themselves into a tremendous passion on the shortest 
notice.) Your poor dear wife as you uses worser nor a 
dog — strike a woman — you a man! (very shrill;) I 
wish I had you — I’d murder you, I wmuld, if I died for 
it ! ” — “ Now be civil,” retorts the man fiercely. “ Be 
civil, you wiper ! ” ejaculates the woman contemptu- 
ously. “A’n’t it shocking ? ” she continues, turning round, 
and appealing to an old woman who is peeping out of 
one of the little closets we have before described, and 
who has not the slightest objection to join in the attack, 
possessing, as she does, the comfortable conviction that 
she is bolted in. “ A’n’t it shocking, ma’am ? (Dreadful ! 


THE PAWNBROKER’S SHOP. 


25 ^ 


says the old woman in a parenthesis, not exactly know- 
ing what the question refers to.) He’s got a wife, ma’am, 
as takes in mangling, and is as ’dustrious and hard-work- 
ing a young ’ooman as can be, (very fast) as lives in the 
hack parlor of our ’ous, which my husband and me lives 
in the front one (with great rapidity) — and we hears 
him abeaten’ on her sometimes when he comes home 
drunk, the whole night through, and not only abeaten’ 
her, but beaten’ his own child too, to make her more 
miserable — ugh, you beast ! and she, poor creator, won’t 
swear the peace agin him, nor do nothin’, because she 
likes the wretch arter all — worse luck ! ” Here as the 
woman has completely run herself out of breath, the 
pawnbroker himself, who has just appeared behind the 
counter in a gray dressing-gown, embraces the favorable 
opportunity of putting in a word : — Now I won’t have 
none of this sort of thing on my premises ! ” he inter- 
poses, with an air of authority. “Mrs. Mackin, keep 
yourself to yourself, or you don’t get fourpence for a 
flat-iron here ; and Jinkins, you leave your ticket here 
till you’re sober, and send your wife for them two planes, 
for I won’t have you in my shop at no price ; so make 
yourself scarce, before I make you scarcer.” 

This eloquent address produces anything but the effect 
desired ; the women rail in concert ; the man hits about 
him in all directions, and is in the act of establishing an 
indisputable claim to gratuitous lodgings for the night, 
when the entrance of his wife, a wretched worn-out 
woman, apparently in the last stage of consumption, whose 
face bears evident marks of recent ill-usage, and whose 
strength seems hardly equal to the burden — light enough 
God knows ! — of the thin sickly child she carries in her 
arms, turns his cowardly rage in a safer direction. “Come 


256 


SKETCHES BY BOZ. 


home, dear,” cries the miserable creature, in an imploring 
tone ; come home, there’s a good fellow, and go to 
bed.” — “ Go home yourself,” rejoins the furious ruffian. 
“ Do come home quietly,” repeats the wife, bursting into 
tears. “ Go home yourself,” retorts the husband again, 
enforcing his argument by a blow which sends the poor 
creature flying out of the shop. Her natural protector ” 
follows her up the court, alternately venting his rage in 
accelerating her progress, and in knocking the little 
scanty blue bonnet of the unfortunate child over its still 
more scanty and faded-looking face. 

In the last box, which is situated in the darkest and 
most obscure corner of the shop, considerably removed 
from either of the gas-lights, are a young delicate girl 
of about twenty, and an elderly female, evidently her 
mother from the resemblance between them, who stand 
at some distance back, as if to avoid the observation 
even of the shopman. It is not their first visit to a 
pawnbroker’s shop, for they answer without a moment’s 
hesitation the usual questions, put in a rather respectful 
manner, and in a much lower tone than usual, of “ Wliat 
name shall I say ? — Your own property, of course ? — 
Where do you live ? — Housekeeper or lodger ? ” They 
bargain, too, for a higher loan than the shopman is at 
first inclined to offer, which a perfect stranger would be 
little disposed to do; and the elder female urges her 
daughter on, in scarcely audible whispers, to exert her 
utmost powers of persuasion to obtain an advance of the 
sum, and expatiate on the value of the articles they have 
brought to raise a present supply upon. They are a 
small gold chain and a “ forget me not ” ring : the girl’s 
property, for they are both too small for the mother ; 
given her in better times ; prized, perhaps, once, for the 


THE PAWNBROKER’S SHOP. 


257 


giver’s sake, but parted with now without a struggle ; for 
want has hardened the mother, and her example has 
hardened the girl, and the prospect of receiving money, 
coupled with a recollection of the misery they have both 
endured from the want of it — the coldness of old friends 
— the stern refusal of some, and the still more galling 
compassion of others — appears to have obliterated the 
consciousness of self-humiliation, which the idea of their 
present situation would once have aroused. 

In the next box is a young female, whose attire, mis- 
erably poor, but extremely gaudy, wretchedly cold, but 
extravagantly fine, too plainly bespeaks her station. The 
rich satin gown with its faded trimmings, the worn-out 
thin shoes, and pink silk stockings, the summer bonnet 
in winter, and the sunken face, where a daub of rouge 
only serves as an index to the ravages of squandered 
health never to be regained, and lost happiness never to 
be restored, and where the practised smile is a wretched 
mockery of the misery of the heart, cannot be mistaken. 
There is something in the glimpse she has just caught 
of her young neighbor, and in the sight of the little 
trinkets she has offered in pawn, that seems to have 
awakened in this woman’s mind some slumbering recol- 
lection, and to have changed, for an instant, her whole 
demeanor. Her first hasty impulse was to bend for- 
ward as if to scan more minutely the appearance of her 
half-concealed companions ; her next, on seeing them 
involuntarily shrink from her, to retreat to the back of 
the box, cover her face with her hands, and burst into 
tears. 

There are strange chords in the human heart, which 
will lie dormant through years of depravity and wicked- 
ness, but which will vibrate at last to some slight cir- 

voi.. I. 17 


258 


SKETCHES BY BOZ. 


cumstance apparently trivial in itself, but connected by 
some undefined and indistinct association, with past days 
that can never be recalled, and with bitter recollections 
from which the most degraded creature in existence 
cannot escape. 

There has been another spectator, in the person of a 
woman in the common shop ; the lowest of the low ; 
dirty, unbonneted, flaunting, and slovenly. Her curiosity 
was at first attracted by the little she could see of the 
group ; then her attention. The half intoxicated leer 
changed to an expression of something like interest, and 
a feeling similar to that we have described, appeared for 
a moment, and only a moment, to extend itself even to 
her bosom. 

Who shall say how soon these women may change 
places ? The last has but two more stages — the hos- 
pital and the grave. How many females situated as her 
two companions are, and as she may have been once, 
have terminated the same wretched course, in the same 
wretched manner. One is already tracing her footsteps 
with frightful rapidity. How soon may the other follow 
lier example ! How many have done the same ! 


CHAPTER XXIV. 

CRIMINAL COURTS. 

We shall never forget the mingled feelings of awe and 
respect with which we used to gaze on the exterior of 
Newgate in our schoolboy days. How dreadful its rough 


CRIMINAL COURTS. 


259 


heavy walls, and low massive doors, appeared to us — - 
the latter looking as if they were made for the express 
purpose of letting people in, and never letting them out 
again. Then the fetters over the debtors’ door, which 
we used to think were a hona fide set of irons, just hung 
up there for convenience sake, ready to be taken down 
at a moment’s notice, and riveted on the limbs of some 
refractory felon ! We were never tired of wondering 
how the hackney-coachmen on the opposite stand could 
cut jokes in the presence of such horrors, and drink pots 
of half-and-half so near the last drop. 

Often have we strayed here, in sessions time, to catch 
a glimpse of the whipping-place, and that dark building 
on one side of the yard, in which is kept the gibbet with 
all its dreadful apparatus, and on the door of which we 
half expected to see a brass plate, with the inscription 
Mr. Ketch ; ” for w^e never imagined that the distin- 
guished functionary could by possibility live anywhere 
else! The days of these childish dreams have passed 
away, and with them many other boyish ideas of a gayer 
nature. But we still retain so much of our original feel- 
ing, that to this hour we never pass the building without 
something like a shudder. 

What London pedestrian is there Avho has not, at some 
time or other, cast a hurried glance through the wicket 
at which prisoners are admitted into this gloomy man- 
sion, and surveyed the few objects he could discern, with 
an indescribable feeling of curiosity ? The thick door, 
plated with iron and mounted with spikes, just low 
enough to enable you to see, leaning over them, an ill- 
looking fellow, in a broad-bi-immed hat, belcher handker- 
chief and top-boots : with a brown coat, something be- 
tween a great-coat and a sporting ” jacket, on his back, 


260 


SKETCHES BY BOZ. 


and an immense key in his left hand. Perhaps you are 
lucky enough to pass, just as the gate is being opened; 
then, you see on the other side of the lodge, another 
gate, the image of its predecessor, and two or three more 
turnkeys, who look like multiplications of the first one, 
seated round a fire which just lights up the whitewashed 
apartment sufficiently to enable you to catch a hasty 
glimpse of these different objects. We have a great 
respect for Mrs. Fry, but she certainly ought to have 
written more romances than Mrs. Radcliffe. 

We were walking leisurely down the Old Bailey, some 
time ago, when, as we passed this identical gate, it was 
opened by the officiating turnkey. We turned quickly 
round, as a matter of course, and saw two persons de- 
scending the steps. We could not help stopping and 
observing them. 

They were an elderly woman of decent appearance, 
thougli evidently poor, and a boy of about fourteen or 
fifteen. The woman was crying bitterly ; she carried a 
small bundle in her hand, and the boy followed at a short 
distance behind her. Their little history was obvious. 
The boy was her son, to whose early comfort she had 
perhaps sacrificed her own — for whose sake she had 
borne misery without repining, and poverty without a 
murmur — looking steadily forward to the time, when he 
who had so long witnessed her struggles for himself, 
might be enabled to make some exertions for their joint 
support. He had formed dissolute connections ; idleness 
had led to crime ; and he had been committed to take his 
trial for some petty theft. He had been long in prison, 
and, after receiving some trifling additional punishment, 
had been ordered to be discharged that morning. It was 
his first offence, and his poor old mother, still hoping to 


CRIMINAL COURTS. 


261 


reclaim him, had been waiting at the gate to implore him 
to return home. 

We cannot forget the boy; he descended the steps with 
a dogged look, shaking his head with an air of bravado 
and obstinate determination. They walked a few paces, 
and paused. The woman put her hand upon his shoulder 
in an agony of entreaty, and the boy sullenly raised his 
head as if in refusal. It was a brilliant morning, and 
every object looked fresh and happy in the broad, gay 
sunlight ; he gazed round him for a few moments, be- 
wildered with the brightness of the scene, for it was long 
since he had beheld anything save the gloomy walls of a 
prison. Perhaps the wretchedness of his mother made 
some impression on the boy’s heart ; perhaps some unde- 
fined recollection of the time when he was a happy child, 
and she his only friend, and best companion, crowded on 
hiin — he burst into tears ; and covering his face with 
one hand, and hurriedly placing the other in his mother’s, 
walked away with her. 

Curiosity has occasionally led us into both Courts at 
the Old Bailey. Nothing is so likely to strike the per- 
son who enters them for the first time, as the calm indif- 
ference with whicli the proceedings are conducted ; every 
trial seems a mere matter of business. There is a great 
deal of form, but no compassion ; considerable interest, 
but no sympathy, ^ake the Old Court for example. 
There sit the Judges, with whose great dignity every- 
body is acquainted, and of whom therefore we need say 
no more. Then, there is the Lord Mayor in the centre, 
looking as cool as a Lord Mayor caii look, with an im- 
mense bouquet before him, and habited in all the splendor 
of his office. I'hen, there are the Sheriffs, who are 
almost as dignified as the Lord Mayor himself ; and the 


262 


SKETCHES BY BOZ. 


Barristei's, who are quite dignified enough in their own 
opinion ; and the spectators, who having paid for tlieir 
admission, look upon the whole scene as if it were got up 
especially for their amusement. Look upon the whole 
group in the body of the Court — some wholly engrossed 
in the morning papers, others carelessly conversing in 
low whispers, and others, again, quietly dozing away an 
hour — and you can scarcely believe that the result of 
the trial is a matter of life or death to one wretched 
being present. But turn your eyes to the dock ; watch 
the prisoner attentively for a few moments ; and the fact 
is before you, in all its painful realitj^ Mark how rest- 
lessly he has been engaged for the last ten minutes, in 
forming all sorts of fantastic figures with the herbs which 
are strewed upon the ledge before him ; observe the 
ashy paleness of his face when a particular witness ap- 
pears, and how he changes his position and wipes his 
clammy forehead, and feverish hands, when the case for 
the prosecution is closed, as if it were a relief to him to 
feel that the jury knew the worst. 

The defence is concluded ; the judge proceeds to sum 
up the evidence ; and the prisoner watches the counte- 
nances of the jury, as a dying man, clinging to life to the 
very last, vainly looks in the face of his physician for a 
slight ray of hope. They turn round to consult ; you 
can almost hear the man’s heart beat, as he bites the 
stalk of rosemary, with a desperate effort to appear com- 
posed. They resume their places — a dead silence pre- 
vails as the foreman delivers in the verdict — “ Guilty !” 
A shriek bursts from a female in the gallery ; the pris- 
oner casts one look at the quarter from whence the noise 
proceeded ; and is immediately hurried from the dock by 
the jailer. The clerk directs one of the officers of the 


CRIMINAL COURTS. 


263 


court to “take the woman out,” and fresh business is pro- 
ceeded with, as if nothing had occurred. 

No imaginary contrast to a case like this, could be asi 
complete as that which is constantly presented in the 
New Court, the gravity of which is frequently disturbed 
in no small degree, by the cunning and pertinacity of 
juvenile offenders. A boy of thirteen is tried, say for 
picking the pocket of some subject of her Majesty, and 
the offence is about as clearly proved as an offence can 
be. He is called upon for his defence, and contents him- 
self with a little declamation about the jurymen and his 
country — asserts that all the Avitnesses have committed 
perjury, and hints that the police force generally, have 
entered into a conspiracy “ again ” him. However prob- 
able this statement may be, it fails to convince the 
Court, and some such scene as the following then takes 
place : — 

Court: Have you any witnesses to speak to your 
character, boy ? 

Boy : Yes, my Lord ; fifteen gefflm’n is a-vaten out- 
side, and VOS a-vaten all day yesterday, vich they told 
me the night afore my trial vos a-comiff on. 

Court : Inquire for these witnesses. 

Here, a stout beadle runs out, and vociferates for the 
witnesses at the very top of his voice ; for you hear his 
cry grow fainter and fainter as he descends the steps into 
the court-yard beloAv. After an absence of five minutes, 
Ite returns, very warm and hoarse, and informs the Court 
of what it knew perfectly well before — namely, that 
there are no such witnesses in attendance. Hereupon 
the boy sets up a most aw'ful howling ; screws the low^er 
part of the palpis of his hands into the corners of his 
eyes ; and endeavors to look the picture of injured inno- 


264 


SKETCHKS BY BOZ. 


cence. The jury at once find him “guilty,” and his 
endeavors to squeeze out a tear or two are redoubled. 
The governor of the jail then states, in reply to an 
inquiry from the bench, that the prisoner has been under 
his care twice before. This the urcliin resolutely denies 
in some such terms as — “ S'elp me, gen’lm’n, I never 
VOS in trouble afore — indeed, my Lord, I never vos. 
Ifs all a-howen to my having a twin brother, vich has 
wrongfully got into trouble, and vich is so exactly like 
me, that no vun ever knows the difference atwcen us.” 

This representation, like the defence, fails in producing 
the desired effect, and the boy is sentenced, perhaps, to 
seven years’ transportation. Finding it impossible to 
excite compassion, he gives vent to his feelings in an 
imprecation bearing reference to the eyes of “ old big 
vig ! ” and as he declines to take the trouble of walking 
from the dock, is forthwith carried out, congratulating 
himself on having succeeded in giving everybody as 
much trouble as possible. 


CHAPTER XXV 

A VISIT TO NEWGATE. 

“ The force of habit” is a trite phrase in everybody’s 
mouth ; and it is not a little remarkable that those who 
use it most as applied to others, unconsciously afford in 
their own pereons singular examples of the power which 
habit and custom exercise over the minds of men, and 
of the little reflection tliey are apt to bestow on subjects 


A VISIT TO NEWGATE. 


265 . 


with which every day’s experience has rendered them 
familiar. If Bedlam could be suddenly removed like 
another Aladdin’s palace, and set down on the space now 
occupied by Newgate, scarcely one man out of a hun- 
dred, whose road to business every morning lies through 
Newgate Street, or the Old Bailey, would pass the build- 
ing without bestowing a hasty glance on its small, grated 
windows, and a transient thouglit upon the condition of 
the unhappy beings immured in its dismal cells ; and yet 
these same men, day by day, and hour by hour, pass and 
repass this gloomy depository of the guilt and misery of 
London, in one perpetual stream of life and bustle, utterly 
unmindful of the throng of wretched creatures pent up 
within it — nay, not even knowing, or if they do, not 
heeding, the fact, that as they pass one particular angle 
of the massive wall with a light laugh or a merry whistle, 
they stand within one yard of a fellow-creature, bound 
and helpless, w^hose hours are numbered, from whom the 
last feeble ray of hope has fled forever, and whose miser- 
able career w ill shortly terminate in a violent and shame- 
ful death. Contact wdth death even in its least terrible 
shape, is solemn and appalling. How much more aw^ful 
is it to reflect on this near vicinity to the dying — to 
men in full health and vigor, in the flower of youth or 
the prime of life, w ith all their faculties and perceptions 
as acute and perfect as your own ; but dying, neverthe- 
less — dying as surely — wdth the hand of death im- 
printed upon them as indelibly — as if mortal disease 
had wasted their frames to shadows, and corruption had 
a!.ej]dy begun ! 

It was wdth some such thoughts as these that w^e de- 
tei*mined, not many wrecks since, to visit the interior of 
Newgate — in an amateur capacity, of course; and, having 


266 


SKETCHES BY BOZ. 


carried our intention into effect, we proceed to lay its re- 
sults before our readers, in the hope — founded more upon 
the nature of the subject, than on any presumptuous con- 
fidence in our own descriptive powers — that this paper 
may not be found wholly devoid of interest. We have 
only to premise, that we do not intend to fatigue the 
i*eader with any statistical accounts of the prison ; they 
will be found at length in numerous reports of numerous 
committees, and a variety of authorities of equal weight. 
We took no notes, made no memoranda, measured none 
of the yards, ascertained the exact number of inches in 
no particular • room : are unable even to report of how 
many apartments the jail is composed. 

We saw the prison, and saw the prisoners ; and what 
we did see, and what we thought, we will tell at once in 
our own way. 

Having delivered our credentials to the servant who 
answered our knock at the door of the governor’s house, 
we were ushered into the “ office ; ” a little room, on the 
right-hand side as you enter, with two windows looking 
into the Old Bailey : fitted up like an ordinary attorney’s 
office, or merchant’s counting-house, with the usual fix- 
tures — a wainscoted partition, a shelf or two, a desk, a 
couple of stools, a pair of clerks, an almanac, a clock, and 
a few maps. After a little delay, occasioned by sending 
into the interior of the prison fbr the officer whose duty 
it Avas to conduct us, that functionary arnved ; a respect- 
able-looking man of about tAvo or three and fifty, in a 
broad-brimmed hat, and full suit of black, Avho, but for 
his keys, would have looked quite as much like a clergy- 
man as a turnkey. We were disappointed ; he had not 
even top-boots on. Following our conductor by a door 
opposite to that at which Ave had entered, Ave arriA'ed at 


A VISIT TO NEWGATE. 


267 


a small room, without any other fumiture than a little 
desk, with a book for visitors’ autographs, and a shelf, on 
which were a few boxes for papers, and casts of the 
heads and faces of the two notorious murderers. Bishop 
and Williams ; the former, in particular, exhibiting a 
style of head and set of features, which might have 
afforded sufficient moral grounds for his instant, execu- 
tion at any time, even had there been no other evidence 
against him. Leaving this room also, by an opposite 
door, we found ourself in the lodge which opens on the 
Old Bailey; one side of which is plentifully garnished 
with a choice collection of heavy sets of irons, including 
those worn by the redoubtable Jack Sheppard — genuine ; 
and those said to have been graced by the sturdy limbs 
of the no less celebrated Dick Turpin — doubtful. From 
this lodge, a heavy oaken gate, bound with iron, studded 
with nails of the same material, and guarded by another 
turnkey, opens on a few steps, if we remember right, 
which terminate in a narrow' and dismal stone passage, 
running parallel with the Old Bailey, and leading to the 
different yards, through a number of tortuous and intii- 
cate windings, guarded in their turn by huge gates and 
gratings, whose appearance is sufficient to dispel at once 
the slightest hope of escape that any new comer may 
have entertained ; and the very recollection of which, on 
eventually traversing the place again, involves one in a 
maze of confusion. 

It is necessary to explain here, that the buildings in 
the prison, or in other words the different wards — form 
a square, of which the four sides abut respectively on the 
Old Bailey, the old College of Physicians (now forming 
a part of Newgate Market), the Sessions House, and 
Newgate Street. The intermediate space is divided into 


268 


SKETCHES BY BOZ. 


several paved yards, in which the prisoners take such 
air and exercise as can be had in such a place. These 
yards, with tlie exception of that in which prisoners 
under sentence of death are confined (of which we shall 
presently give a more detailed description), run parallel 
with Newgate Street, and consequently from the Old 
Bailey, as it were, to Newgate Market. The women’s 
side is in the right wing of the prison nearest the Ses- 
sion;; House. As we were introduced into this part 
of tlie building first, we will adopt the same order, and 
introduce our readers to it also. 

Turning to the right, then, down the passage to which 
we just now adverted, omitting any mention of inter- 
vening gates — for if we noticed every gate that was 
unlocked for us to pass through, and locked again as 
soon as we had passed, we should require a gate at every 
comma — we came to a door composed of thick bars of 
wood, through which were discernible, passing to and fro 
in a narrow yard, some twenty women : the majority of 
whom, however, as soon as they were aware of the pres- 
ence of strangers, retreated to their wards. One side 
of this yard is railed off at a considerable distance, and 
formed into a kind of iron cage, about five feet ten inches 
in height, roofed at the top, and defended in front by iron 
bars, from which the friends of the female prisoners com- 
municate with them. In one corner of this singular- 
looking den, was a yellow, haggard, decrepit old woman 
in a tattei'ed gown that had once been black, and the 
remains of an old straw bonnet, with faded ribbon of the 
same hue, in earnest conversation with a young girl — a 
prisoner, of course — of about two-and-twenty. It is 
impossible to imagine a more poverty stricken object, or 
a creature so borne down in soul and body, by excess of 


A VISIT TO NEWGATE. 


269 


misery and destitution as the old woman. The girl was 
a good-looking robust female, with a profusion of hair 
streaming about in the wind — for she had no bonnet on 
— and a man’s silk pocket-handkerchief loosely thrown 
over a most ample pair of shoulders. The old woman 
was talking in that low, stifled tone of voice which tells 
so forcibly of mental anguish ; and every now and then 
burst into an irrepressible sharp, abrupt cry of grief, the 
most distressing sound that ears can hear. The girl was 
perfectly unmoved. Hardened beyond all hope of re- 
demption, she listened doggedly to her mothers entrea- 
ties, whatever they were : and, beyond inquiring after 
“Jem,” and eagerly catching at the few halfpence her 
miserable parent had brought her, took no more apparent 
interest in the conversation than the most unconcerned 
spectators. Heaven knows there were enough of them, 
in the persons of the other prisoners in the yard, who 
were no more concerned by what was passing before 
their eyes, and 'within their heaidng, than if they were 
blind and deaf. Why should they be ? Inside the 
prison, and out, such scenes were too familiar to them, 
to excite even a passing thought, unless of ridicule or 
contempt for feelings which they had long since for- 
gotten. 

A little farther on, a squalid-looking woman in a slov- 
enly thick-bordered cap, with her ai’ins muffled in a large 
red shawl, the fringed ends of which straggled nearly to 
the bottom of a dirty white apron, was communicating 
some instructions to her visitor — her daughter evidently. 
The girl was thinly clad, and shaking with the cold. 
Some ordinary word of recognition passed between her 
and her mother when she appeared at the grating, but 
neither hope, condolence, regret, nor affection was ex- 


270 


SKETCHES BY BOZ. 


pressed on either side. The mother whispered her in- 
structions, and the girl received them with her pinched- 
up half-starved features twisted into an expression of 
('areful cunning. It was some scheme for the woman’s 
defence that she was disclosing, perhaps ; and a sullen 
smile came over the girl’s face for an instant, as if she 
were pleased: not so much at the probability of her 
mother’s liberation, as at the chance of her “ getting off” 
in spite of her prosecutors. The dialogue was soon con- 
cluded ; and with the same careless indifference with 
which they had approached each other, the mother 
turned towards the inner end of the yard, and the girl 
to the gate at wliich she had entered. 

The girl belonged to a class — unhappily but too ex- 
tensive — the very existence of which should make men’s 
hearts bleed. Barely past her childhood, it required but 
a glance to discover that she was one of those children, 
born and bi*ed in neglect and vice, who have never 
known what childhood is : who have never been taught 
to love and court a parent’s smile, or to dread a parent’s 
frown. The thousand nameless endearments of child- 
hood, its gayety and its innocence, are alike unknown to 
them. They have entered at once upon the stern reali- 
ties and miseries of life, and to their better nature it is 
almost liopeless to appeal in after-times, by any of the 
references which will awaken, if it be only for a moment, 
some good feeling in ordinary bosoms, however corrupt 
tliey may have become. Talk to them of parental solici- 
tude, tlie happy days of childhood, and the merry games 
of infancy ! Tell them of hunger and the streets, beg- 
gary and stripes, the gin-shop, the station-house, and the 
pawnbroker s, and they will understmid you. 

Two or three women were standing at different parts 


A VISIT TO NEWGATE. 


271 


of the grating, conversing witlv their friends, but a very 
large proportion of the prisoners appeared to have no 
friends at all, beyond such of their old companions as 
might happen to be within the walls. So, passing hastily 
down the yard, and pausing only for an instant to notice 
the little incidents we have just recorded, we were con- 
ducted up a clean and well-lighted flight of stone stairs 
to one of the wards. There are several in this part of 
the building, but a description of one is a description of 
the whole. ^ 

It was a spacious, bare, whitewashed apartment, lighted 
of course, by windows looking into the interior of the 
prison, but far more light and airy than one could reason- 
ably expect to find in such a situation. There was a 
large fire with a deal table before it, round wdiich ten oi* 
a dozen women were seated on wooden forms at dinner. 
Along both sides of the room ran a shelf ; below it, at 
regular inteiwals, a row of large hooks were fixed in the 
wall, on each of which was hung the sleeping-mat of a 
prisoner: her rug and blanket being folded up, and 
placed on the shelf above. At niglij;, these mats are 
placed on the floor, each beneath the hook on which it 
hangs during the day ; and the ward is thus made to 
answer the purposes both of a day-room and sleeping 
apartment. Over the fireplace was a large sheet of 
pasteboard, on which were displayed a variety of texts 
from Scripture, which were also scattered about the 
room in scraps about the size and shape of the copy- 
slips which are used in schools. On the table w^as a 
sufficient provision of a kind of stewed beef and brown 
bread, in pewTer dishes, which are kept perfectly bright, 
and displayed on shelves in ’ great order and regularity 
when they are not in use. 


272 


SKETCHES BY BOZ. 


The women rose hastily, on our entrance, and retired 
in a hurried manner to either side of the fireplace. They 
were all cleanly — many of them decently — attired, 
and there was nothing peculiar, either in their appear- 
ance or demeanor. One or two resumed tlie needlework 
which they had probably laid aside at the commencement 
of their meal; others gazed at the visitors with listless 
curiosity ; and a few retired behind their companions to 
the very end of the room, as if desirous to avoid even 
the casual observation of the strangers. Some old Irish 
women, both in this and otheii wards, to wliom the thing 
was no novelty, appeared perfectly indifferent to our 
presence, and remained standing close to the seats from 
which they had just risen ; but the general feeling among 
Tthe females seemed to be one of uneasiness during the 
period of our stay among them : which was very brief. 
Not a woj-d was uttered during the time of our remain- 
ing, unless, indeed, by the ^vardswoman in reply to some 
question which we put to the turnkey who accompanied 
us. In every ward on the female side, a wardswoman 
is appointed to preserve oi-der, and a similar regulation 
is adopted among the males. The wardsmen and wards- 
women are all prisoners, selected for good conduct. They 
alone are allowed the privilege of sleeping on bedsteads ; 
a small stump bedstead being placed in every ward for 
that purpose. On both sides of the jail is a small 
receiving-room, to wliich prisoners are conducted on their 
first reception, and whence they cannot be removed until 
they have been examined by the surgeon of the prison.* 

♦ The regulations of the prison relative to the confinement of pris- 
oners during the day, their sleeping at night, their taking their meals, 
and other matters of jail economy, have been all altered — greatly for 
the better — since this sketch was first published. 


A VISIT TO NEWGATE. 


273 


Retracing our steps to tbe dismal passage in which we 
found ourselves at first (and which, by the by, contains 
three or four dark cells for the accommodation of refrac- 
tory prisoners), we were led through a narrow yard to 
,the “ school ” — a portion of the prison set apart for 
boys under fourteen years of age. In a tolerable-si ze<l 
room, in which were writing-materials and some copy- 
books, was the schoolmaster, with a couple of his pupils ; 
the remainder having been fetched from an adjoining 
apartment, the whole were drawn up in line for our 
inspection. There were fourteen of them in all, some 
with shoes, some without ; some in pinafores without 
jackets, others in jackets without pinafores, and one in 
scarce anything at all. The whole number, without an 
exception we believe, had been committed for trial on 
charges of pocket-picking ; and fourteen such terrible 
little faces we never beheld. — There was not one re- 
deeming feature among them — not a glance of honesty 
— not a wink expressive of anything but the gallows 
and the hulks, in the whole collection. As to anything 
like shame or contrition, that was entirely out of tlie 
question. They were evidently quite gratified at being 
thought worth the trouble of looking at ; their idea 
appeared to be, that we had come to see Newgate as a 
grand affair, and that they were an indispensable part of 
the show ; and every boy as he fell in ” to the line, 
actually seemed as pleased and important as if he had 
done something excessively meritorious in getting there 
at all. We never looked upon a more disagreeable sight, 
because we never saw fourteen such hopeless creatures 
of neglect, before. 

On either side of. the school-yard is a yard for men, in 
one of which — that towaixls Newgate Street — prison- 
18 


VOL. I. 


274 


SKETCHES BY BOZ. 


ers of the more respect^le class are confined. Of the 
other, we have little description to offer, as the different 
wards necessarily partake of the same character. They 
are provided, like the wards on the women’s side, with 
mats and rugs, which are disposed of in the same man- 
ner during the day ; the only very striking difference 
between their appearance and that of the wards inhab- 
ited by the females, is the utter absence of any employ- 
ment. Huddled together on two opposite forms, by the 
fireside, sit twenty men perhaps ; here, a boy in livery ; 
there, a man in a rough great-coat and top-boots ; far- 
ther on, a desperate-looking fellow in his shirt sleeve.^^ 
with an old Scotch cap upon his shaggy head ; near him 
again a tall ruffian in a smock-frock ; next to him, a 
miserable being of distressed appearance, with his head 
resting on his hand ; — all alike in one respect, all idle 
and listless. When they do leave the fire, sauntering 
moodily about, lounging in the window, or leaning against 
the wall, vacantly swinging their bodies to and fro. With 
the exception of a man reading an old newspaper, in two 
or three instances, this was the case in every ward we 
entered. 

The only communication these men have with their 
friends, is through two close iron gratings, with an inter- 
mediate space of about a yard in width between the two, 
so that nothing can be handed across, nor can the pris- 
oner have any communication by touch with the person 
who visits him. The married men have a separate 
grating, at which to see their wives, but its construction 
is the sarhe. 

The prison chapel is situated at the back of the gov- 
ernor’s house : the latter having no windows looking into 
the interior of the prison. Whether the associations 


A VISIT TO NEWGATE. 


275 


connected with the place — the knowledge that here a 
portion of the burial service is, on some dreadful occa- 
sions, performed over the quick and not upon the dead 
— cast over it a still more gloomy and sombre air than 
art has imparted to it, we know not, but its appearance 
is very striking. There is something in a silent and de- 
serted place of worship, solemn and impressive at any 
time ; and the very dissimilarity of this one from any we 
have been accustomed to, only enhances the impression. 
The meanness of its appointments — the bare and scanty 
pulpit, with the paltry painted pillars on either side — 
the women’s gallery with its great heavy curtain — the 
men’s with its unpainted benches and dingy front — the 
tottering little table at the altar, with the commandments 
on the wall above it, scarcely legible through lack of 
paint, and dust, and damp — so unlike the velvet and 
gilding, the marble and wood, of a modern church — are 
strange and striking. There is one object, too, which 
rivets the attention and fascinates the gaze, and from 
which we may turn horror-stricken in vain, for the recol- 
lection of it will haunt us, waking and sleeping, for a 
long time afterwards. Immediately below the reading- 
desk, oh the floor of the chapel, and forming the most 
conspicuous object in its little area, is the condemned 
pew ; a huge black pen, in which the wretched people, 
who are singled out for death, are placed, on the Sunday 
preceding their execution, in sight of all their fellow- 
prisoners, from many of wliom they may have been 
separated but a week before, to hear prayers for their 
own souls, to join in the responses of their own burial 
service, and to listen to an address, warning their recent 
companions to take example by their fate, and urging 
themselves, while there is yet time — nearly four-and- 


276 


SKETCHES BY BOZ. 


twenty hours — to turn, and flee from the wrath to 
come ! ’’ Imagine what have been the feelings of the 
men whom that feaidul pew has enclosed, and of whom, 
between the gallows and the knife, no mortal remnant 
may now remain ! Think of the hopeless clinging to life 
to the last, and the wild despair, far exceeding in anguish 
the felon’s death itself, by which they have heard the 
certainty of their speedy transmission to another world, 
with all their crimes upon their heads, rung into their 
ears by the officiating clergyman ! 

At one time — and at no distant period either — the 
coffins of the men about to be executed, were placed in 
that pew, upon the seat by their side, during the whole 
service. It may seem incredible, but it is true. Let us 
hope that the increased spirit of civilization and human- 
ity which abolished this frightful and degrading custom, 
may extend itself to other usages equally barbarous ; 
usages which have not even the plea of utility in their 
defence, as every year’s experience has shown them to 
be more and more inefficacious. 

Leaving the chapel, descending to the passage so fre- 
quently alluded to, and crossing the yard before noticed 
as being allotted to prisoners of a more respectable de- 
scription than the generality of men confined here, the 
visitor arrives at a thick iron o^ate of great size and 
strength. Having been admitted through it by the turn- 
key on duty, he turns sharp round to the left, and pauses 
I^fore another gate ; and, having passed this last barrier, 
he stands in the most terrible part of this gloomy build- 
ing — the condemned ward. 

The press-yard, well known by name to newspaper 
readers, from its frequent mention in accounts of execu- 
tions, is at the corner of the building, and next to the 


A VISIT TO NEWGATE. 


277 


ordinary’s house, in Newgate Street: running from New- 
gate Street, towards the centre of the prison, parallel 
with Newgate Market. It is a long, narrow court, of 
which a portion of the wall in Newgate Street forms one 
end, and the gate the other. At the upper end, on the 
left-hand — that is, adjoining the wall in Newgate Street 
— is a cistern of water, and at tlie bottom a double grat- 
ing (of which the gate itself forms a part) similar to 
that before described. Through these grates the pris- 
oners are allowed to see their friends ; a turnkey always 
remaining in the vacant space between, during the whole 
interview. Immediately on the right as you enter, is a 
building containing the press-room, day -room, and cells ; 
the yard is on every side surrounded by lofty walls 
guarded by chevaux de frise ; and the whole is under 
the constant inspection of vigilant and experienced turn- 
keys. 

In the first apartment into which we were conducted — 
which was at the top of a staircase, and immediately 
over the press-room — were five-and-twenty or thirty 
prisoners, all under sentence of death, awaiting the re- 
sult of the recorder’s report — men of all ages and ap- 
pearances, from a hardened old offender with swarthy 
face and grizzly beard of three davs’ errowth, to a han^l- 
some boy, not fourteen years old, and of singularly youth- 
ful appearance even for that age, who had been con- 
demned for burglary. There was nothing remarkable in 
the appearance of these prisoners. One or two decently 
dressed men were brooding with a dejected air over the 
fire ; several little groups of two or three had been en- 
gaged in conversation at the upper end of the room, or 
in the windows ; and the remainder were crowded round 
a young man seated at a table, who appeared to ha 


278 


SKETCHES BY BOZ. 


engaged in teaching the younger ones to write. The 
room was large, airy, and clean. There was very little 
anxiety or mental suffering depicted in the countenance 
of any of the men ; — they had all been sentenced to 
death, it is true, and the recorder’s report had not yet 
been made ; but, we question whether there was a man 
among them, notwithstanding, who did not know that 
although he had undergone the ceremony, it never was 
intended that his life should be sacrificed. On the table 
lay a Testament, but there were no tokens of its having 
been in recent use. 

In the press-room below, were three men, the nature 
of whose offence rendered it necessary to separate them, 
even from their companions in guilt. It is a long, sombre 
room, with two windows sunk into the stone wall, and 
here the wretched men are pinioned on the morning of 
their execution, before moving towards the scaffold. The 
fate of one of these prisoners was uncertain ; some miti- 
gatory circumstances having come to light since his trial, 
which had been humanely represented in the proper 
quarter. The other two had nothing to expect from the 
mercy of the crown ; their doom was sealed ; no plea 
could be urged in extenuation of their crime, and they 
wfiii knew that for them there was no hope in this world. 
The two short ones,” the turnkey whispered, “ were 
dead men.” 

The man to whom we have alluded as entertaining 
some hopes of escape, was lounging at the greatest dis- 
tance he could place between himself and his compan- 
ions, in the window nearest to the door. He was prob- 
ably aware of our approach, and had assumed an air of 
courageous indifference ; his face was purposely averted 
towards the window, and he stirred not an inch while we 


A VISIT TO NEWGATE. 


279 


were present. The other two men were at the upper 
end of the room. One of them, who was imperfectlj 
seen in the dim light, had his back towards us, and wa^ 
stooping over the fire, with his right arm on the mantel- 
piece, and his head sunk upon it. The other, was lean- 
ing on the sill of the farthest window. The light fell 
full upon him, and communicated to his pale, haggard 
face, and disordered air, an appearance which, at that 
distance, was ghastly. His cheek rested upon his hand ; 
and, with his face a little raised, and his eyes widely 
staring before him, he seemed to be unconsciously intent 
on counting the chinks in the opposite wall. We passed 
this room again afterwards. The first man was pacing 
lip and down the court with a firm military step — he 
had been a soldier in the foot-guards — and a cloth cap 
jauntily thrown on one side of his head. He bowed re- 
spectfully to our conductor, and the salute was returned. 
The other two still remained in the positions we have 
described, and were as motionless as statues.* 

A few paces up the yard, and forming a continuation 
of the building, in which are the two rooms we have just 
quitted, lie the condemned cells. The entrance is by a 
narrow and obscure staircase leading to a dark passage, 
in which a charcoal stove casts a lurid tint over the 
objects in its immediate vicinity, and diffuses something 
like warmth around. From the left-hand side of this pas- 
sage, the massive door of every cell on the story opens ; 
and from it alone can they be approached. There are 
three of these passages, and three of these ranges of 
cells, one above the other ; but in size, furniture, and 
appearance, they are all precisely alike. Prior to the 

* These two men were executed shortly afterwards. The other was 
respited during her majesty’s pleasure. 


280 


SKETCHES BY BOZ. 


recorder’s report being made, all the prisoners under 
sentence of death are removed from the day-room at five 
o'clock in the afternoon, and locked up in these cells, 
where they are allowed a candle until ten o’clock ; and 
here they remain until seven next morning. When the 
warrant for a prisoner’s execution arrives, he is removed 
to the cells and confined in one of them until he leaves 
it for the scaffold. He is at liberty to walk in the yard ; 
but, both in his walks and in his ceil, he is constantly 
attended by a turnkey who never leaves him on any 
pretence. 

We entered the first cell. It was a stone dungeon, 
eight feet long by six wide, with a bench at the upper 
end, under which were a common rug, a bible, and prayer- 
book. An iron candlestick was fixed into the wall at 
the side ; and a small high window in the back admitted 
as much air and light as could struggle in between a 
double row of heavy, crossed iron bars. It contained no 
other furniture of any description. 

Conceive the situation of a man, spending his last 
night on earth in this cell. Buoyed up with some vague 
and undefined hope of reprieve, he knew not why — in- 
dulging in some wild and visionary idea of escaping, he 
knew not how — hour after hour of the three preceding 
days allowed him for preparation, has fled with a speed 
wliit^h no man living would deem possible, for none but 
this dying man can know. He has wearied his friends 
v>dth entreaties, exhausted the attendants with importuni- 
ties, neglected in his feverish restlessness the timely warn- 
ings of his spiritual consoler ; and, now that the illusion 
is at last dispelled, now that eternity is before him and 
guilt behind, now that his fears of death amount almost 
to madness, and an overwhelming sense of his helpless, 


A VISIT TO NEWGATE. 28^ 

hopeless state, rushes upon him, he is lost and stupefied 
and has neither thoughts to turn to, nor power to call 
upon, the Almighty Being, from whom alone he can 
seek mercy and forgiveness, and before whom his repent- 
ance can alone avail. 

Hours have glided by, and still he sits upon the same 
stone bench with folded arms, heedless alike of the fast- 
decreasing time before him, and the urgent entreaties of 
the good man at his side. The feeble light is wasting 
gradually, and the deathlike stillness of the street with- 
out, broken only by the rumbling of some passing vehicle 
which echoes mournfully through the empty yards, warns 
him that the night is waning- fast away. The deep bell 
of St. Paul's strikes — one ! He heard it ; it has roused 
him. Seven hours left ! He paces the narrow limits of 
his cell with rapid strides, cold drops of terror starting 
on his forehead, and every muscle of his frame quivering 
with agony. Seven hours ! He suffers himself to be 
led to his seat, mechanically takes the bible which is 
placed in his hand, and tides to read and listen. No : his 
thoughts will wander. The book is torn and soiled by 
use — and like the book he read his lessons in, at school, 
just forty years ago ! He has never bestowed a thought 
upon it, perhaps, since he left it as a child : and yet the 
place, the time, the room — nay, the very boys he played 
with, crowd as vividly before him as if they were scenes 
of yesterday ; and some forgotten phrase, some childish 
word, rings in his ears like the echo of one uttered but a 
minute since. The voice of the clergyman recalls him to 
himself. He is reading from the sacred book its solemn 
promises of pardon for repentance, and its awful denun- 
ciation of obdurate men. He falls upon his knees and 
clasps his hands to pray. Hush ! what sound was that ? 


282 


SKETCHES BY BOZ. 


He starts upon his feet. It cannot be two yet. Hark 
Two quarters have struck ; — the third — the fourth. It 
is ! Six hours left. Tell him not of repentance ! Six 
hours’ repentance for eight times six years of guilt and 
sin ! He buries his face in bis hands, and throws him- 
self on the bench. 

Worn with watching and excitement, he sleeps, and 
the same unsettled state of mind pursues him in his 
dreams. An insupportable load is taken from his breast ; 
he is walking with his wife in a pleasant field, with the 
bright sky above them, and a fresh and boundless pros- 
pect on every side — how different from the stone walls 
of Newgate ! She is looking — not as she did when he 
saw her for the last time in that dreadful place, but as 
she used when he loved her — long, long ago, before 
misery and ill-treatment had altered her looks, and vice 
had changed Iiis nature, and she is leaning upon his arm, 
and looking up into his face with tenderness and affection 
— and he does not strike her now, nor rudely shake her 
from him; And oh ! how glad he is to tell her all he had 
forgotten in that last hurried interview, and to fall on his 
knees before lier and fervently beseech her pardon for all 
the unkindness and cruelty that vrasted her form and 
broke her heart ! The scene suddenly changes. He is 
on his trial again : there are the judge and jury, and 
prosecutors, and witnesses, just as they were before. 
How full the court is — what a sea of heads — with a 
gallows, too, and a scaflPold — and how all those people 
stare at him ! Verdict, “ Guilty.” No matter.; fie will 
escape. 

The night is dark and cold, the gates have been left 
open, and in an instant he is in the street, flying from 
the scene of his imprisonment like the wind. The streets 


A VISIT TO NEWGATE. 


283 


are cleared, the open fields are gained and the broad 
wide country lies before him. Onward he dashes in the 
midst of darkness, over hedge and ditch, through mud 
and pool, bounding from spot to spot with a speed and 
lightness, astonishing^ even to himself. At length Ik.* 
pauses ; he must be safe from pursuit now ; he will 
stretch himself on that bank and sleep till sunrise. 

A period of unconsciousness succeeds. He wakes, cold 
and wretched. The dull gray light of morning is stealing 
into the cell, and falls upon the form of the attendant 
turnkey. Confused by his dreams, he starts from his 
uneasy bed in momentary uncertainty. It is but momen- 
tary. Every object in the narrow cell is too frightfully 
real to admit of doubt or mistake. He is the condemned 
felon again, guilty and despairing ; and in two hours 
more will be dead. 


284 


SKETCHES BY BOZ. 


CHARACTERS. 

f 


CHAPTER L 

THOUGHTS ABOUT PEOPLE. 

It is strange with how little notice, good, bad, or in 
different, a man may live and die in London. He 
awakens no sympathy in the breast of any single person 
his existence is a matter of intei'est to no one save him- 
self ; he cannot be said to be forgotten when he dies, for 
no one remembered him when he was alive. There is a 
numerous class of people in this great metropolis who 
seem not to possess a single friend, and whom nobody 
appears to care for. Urged by imperative necessity in 
the first instance, they have resorted to London in search 
of employment, and the means of subsistence. It is 
hard, we know, to break the ties w^hich bind us to our 
homes and friends, and harder still to efface the thousand 
recollections of happy days and old times, which have 
been slumbering in our bosoms for years, and only rush 
upon the mind, to bring before it associations connected 
with the friends we have left, the scenes we have beheld 
too probably for the last time, and the hopes we once 
cherished, but may entertain no more. These men, how- 
ever, happily for themselves, have long forgotten such 
thoughts. Old country friends have died or emigrated ; 
former correspondents have become lost, like themselves, 


THOUGHTS ABOUT PKOl'LE. 


285 


in the crowd and turmoil of some busy city ; and they 
have gradually settled down into mere passive creatures 
of habit and endurance. 

We were seated in the enclosure of St. James’s Park 
the other day, when our attention was attracted by a man 
whom we immediately put down in our own mind as one 
of this class. He was a tall, thin, pale person, in a black 
coat, scanty gray trousers, little pinched-up gaiters, and 
brown beaver gloves. He had an umbrella in his hand 
— not for use, for the day was fine — but, evidently, be- 
cause he always carried one to the office in the morning. 
He walked up and down before the little patch of grass 
on which tlie chairs are placed for hire, not as if he were 
doing it for pleasure or recreation, but as if it were a 
matter of compulsion, just as he would walk to the office 
every morning from the back settlements of Islington. It 
was Monday ; he had escaped for four-and-twenty hours 
from the thraldom of the desk ; and Avas walking here 
for exercise and amusement — perhaps for the first time 
ill his life. We were inclined to think he had never had 
a holiday before, and that he did not know what to do 
Avith himself. Children Avere playing on the grass ; 
groups of people Avere loitering about, chatting and 
laughing ; but the man Avalked steadily up and down, 
unheeding and unheeded, his spare pale face looking as 
if it were incapable of bearing the expression of curiosity 
or interest. 

There Avas something in the man’s manner and appear- 
ance Avhich told us, Ave fancied, his whole life, or rather 
his Avhole day, for a man of this sort has no variety of 
days. We thought Ave almost saAv the dingy little back 
office into Avhich he Avalks every morning, hanging his 
hat on the same peg, and placing his legs beneath the 


286 


SKETCHES BY BOZ. 


same desk : first, taking off that black coat which lasts 
the year through, and putting on the one which did duty 
last year, and which he keeps in his desk to save the 
other. There he sits till five o’clock, working on, all day, 
as regularly as the dial over the mantel-piece, whose loud 
ticking is as monotonous as his w^hole existence : only 
raising his head when some one enters the counting- 
house, or when, in the midst of some difficult calculation, 
he looks up to the ceiling as if there were inspiration in 
the dusty skylight with a green knot in the centre of 
every pane of glass. About five, or half-past, he slowly 
dismounts from his accustomed stool, and again changing 
his coat, proceeds to his usual dining-place, somewhere 
near Bucklersbury. The waiter recites the bill of fare in 
a rather confidential manner — for he is a regular cus- 
tomer — and after inquiring What’s in the best cut ? ” 
and “ What was up last ? ” he orders a small plate of 
roast beef, with greens, and half a pint of porter. He 
has a small plate to-day, because greens are a penny 
more than potatoes, and he had “ two breads ” yesterday, 
Avith the additional enormity of “ a cheese ” the day be- 
fore. This important point settled, he hangs up his hat 
— he took it off the moment he sat down — and bespeaks 
the paper after the next gentleman. If he can get it 
while he is at dinner, he eats Avith much greater zest; 
balancing it against the water-bottle, and eating a bit of 
beef, and reading a line or tw'o, alternately. Exactly at 
five minutes before the hour is up, he produces a shilling, 
pays the reckoning, carefully deposits the change in his 
waistcoat-pocket (first deducting a penny for the Avaiter), 
and returns to the office, from Avhich, if it is not foreign 
post night, he again sallies forth, in about half an hour. 
He then Avalks home, at his usual pace, to his little back- 


THOUGHTS ABOUT PEOPLE. 


287 


room at Islington, where he has his tea ; perhaps solacing 
himself during the meal with the conversation of his land- 
lady's little boy, whom he occasionally rewards with a 
penny, for solving problems in simple addition. Some- 
times, there is a letter or two to take up to his employer’s, 
ill Russell Square ; and then, the wealthy man of busi- 
ness, hearing his voice, calls out from the dining-parlor, — 
“ Come in, Mr. Smith ; ” and Mr. Smith, putting his hat 
at the feet of one of the hall-chairs, walks timidly in, 
and being condescendingly desired to sit down, carefully 
tucks his legs under his chair, and sits at a considerable 
distance from the table while he drinks the glass of sherry 
which is poured out for him by the eldest boy, and after 
drinking which, he backs and slides out of the room, in a 
state of nervous agitation from which he does not per- 
fectly recover, until he finds himself once more in the 
Islington Road. Poor, harmless creatures such men are ; 
contented but not happy ; broken-spirited and humbled, 
they may feel no pain, but they never know pleasure. 

Compare these men with another class of beings who, 
like them, have neither friend nor companion, but whose 
position in society is the result of their own choice. 
These are generally old fellows with white heads and 
red faces, addicted to port wine and Hessian boots, who 
from some cause, real or imaginary — generally the for- 
mer, the excellent reason being that they are rich, and 
their relations poor — grow suspicious of everybody, and 
do the misanthropical in chambers, taking great delight 
in thinking themselves unhappy, and making everybody 
they come near, miserable. You may see such men as 
these, anywhere ; you will know them at cofiee-houses by 
their discontented exclamations and the luxury of their 
dinners ; at theatres, by their always sitting in the same 


288 


SKETCHES BY BOZ. 


place and looking with a jaundiced eye on all the young 
people near them ; at church, by the pomposity with 
which they enter, and the loud tone in which they repeat 
the responses ; at parties, by their getting cross at whist 
and hating music. An old fellow of this kind will have 
his chambers splendidly furnished, and collect books, 
plate, and pictures about him in profusion ; not so much 
for his own gratification, as to be superior to those who 
have the desire, but not the means, to compete with him. 
He belongs to two or three clubs, and is envied, and flat- 
tered, and hated by the members of them all. Sometimes 
he will be appealed to by a poor relation — a married 
nephew perhaps — for some little assistance : and* then 
he will declaim with honest indignation on the improvi- 
dence of young married people, the worthlessness of a 
wife, the insolence of having a family, the atrocity of get- 
ting into debt with a hundred and twenty-five pounds a- 
year, and other unpardonable crimes ; winding up his 
exhortations with a complacent review of his own con- 
duct, and a delicate allusion to parochial relief. He dies, 
some day after dinner, of apoplexy, having bequeathed 
his property to a Public Society, and the Institution 
erects a tablet to his memory, expressive of their admi- 
ration of his Christian conduct in this wmrld, and their 
comfortable conviction of his happiness in the next. 

But, next to our very particular friends, hackney- 
coachmen, cabmen, and cads, whom we admire in pro- 
portion to the extent of their cool impudence and pei’fect 
self-possession, there is no class of people who amuse us 
more than London apprentices. They are no longer an 
organized body, bound down by solemn compact to terrify 
his majesty’s subjects wdienever it pleases them to take 
offence in their heads and staves in their hands. They 


THOUGHTS ABOUT PEOPLE. 


289 


are only bound, now, by indentures; and, as to their 
valor, it is easily restrained by the wholesome dread of 
the New Police, and a perspective view of a damp sta- 
tion-house, terminating in a police-office and a reprimand. 
They are still, however, a peculiar class, and not the less 
pleasant for being inoffensive. Can any one fail to have 
noticed them in the streets on Sunday ? And were there 
ever such harmless efforts at the grand and magnificent 
as the young fellows display ! We walked down the 
Strand, a Sunday or two ago, behind a little group ; and 
they furnished food for our amusement the whole way. 
They had come out of some part of the city ; it was be- 
tween three and four o’clock in the afternoon ; and they 
were on their way to the Park. There were four of 
them, all arm-in-arm, with white kid gloves like so many 
bridegrooms, light trousers of unprecedented patterns, and 
coats for which the English language has yet no name — 
a kind of cross between a great-coat and a surtout, with 
the collar of the offe, the skirts of the other, and pockets 
peculiar to themselves. 

Each of the gentlemen carried a thick stick, with a 
large tassel at the top, which he occasionally twirled 
gracefully round ; and the whole four, by way of looking 
easy and unconcerned, were walking with a paralytic 
swagger irresistibly ludicrous. One of the party had a 
watch about the size and shape of a reasonable Ribstone 
pippin, jammed into his waistcoat-pocket, which he care- 
fully compared with the clocks at St. Clement’s and the 
New Church, the illuminated clock at Exeter ’Change, 
the clock of St. Martin’s Church, and the clock of the 
Horse Guards. When they at last arrived in St. James’s 
Park, the member of the party who had the best-made 
boots on, hired a second chair expressly for his feet, and 

VOL. I. 19 


290 


SKETCHES BY BOZ. 


flung himself on this twopennyworth of sylvan luxury 
with an air which levelled all distinctions between 
Brookes s and Snooks’s, Crockford s and Bagnigge Wells. 

We may smile at such people, but they can never ex- 
cite our anger. They are usually on the best terms with 
themselves, and it follows almost as a matter of course, 
in good humor with every one about them. Besides, 
they are always the faint reflection of higher lights ; 
and, if they do display a little occasional foolery in their 
own proper persons, it is surely more tolerable than pre- 
cocious puppyism in the Quadrant, whiskered dandyism 
in Regent Street and Pall Mall, or gallantry in its dotage 
anywhere. 


CHAPTER II. 

A CHRISTMAS DINNER. 

Christmas time ! That man must be a misanthrope 
indeed, in whose breast something like a jovial feeling is 
not roused — in whose mind some pleasant associations 
are not awakened — by the recurrence of Christmas. 
There are people who will tell you that Christmas is not 
to them what it used to be ; that each succeeding Chiistr 
mas has found some .cherished hope, or happy prospect, 
of the year before, dimmed or passed away; that the 
present only serves to remind them of reduced circum- 
stances and straightened incomes — of the feasts they 
once bestowed on hollow friends, and of the cold looks 
that meet them now, in adversity and misfortune. Never 


A CHRISTMAS DINNER. 


291 


heed such dismal reminiscences. There are few men 
who have lived long enough in the world, who cannot call 
up such thoughts any day in the year. Then do not 
select the merriest of the three hundred and sixty-five, 
for your doleful recollections, but draw your cliair nearer 
the blazing fire — fill the glass and send round the song 

— and if your room be smaller than it was a dozen years 
ago, or if your glass be filled with reeking punch, instead 
of sparkling wine, put a good face on the matter, and 
empty it oflT-hand, and fill another, and troll off the old 
ditty you used to sing, and thank God it’s no worse. 
Look on the merry faces of your children (if you have 
any) as they sit round the fire. One little seat may be 
empty; one slight form that gladdened the father’s heart, 
and roused the mother’s pride to look upon, may not be 
there. Dwell not upon the past ; think not that one 
short year ago, the fair child now resolving into dust, sat 
before you, with the bloom of health upon its cheek, and 
the gayety of infancy in its joyous eye. Reflect upon 
your present blessings — of which every man has many 

— not on your past misfortunes, of which all men have 
some. Fill your glass again, with a merry face and con- 
tented heart. Our life on it, but your Christmas shall be 
merry, and your new year a happy one ! 

Who can be insensible to the outpourings of good feel- 
ing, and the honest interchange of afiectionate attach- 
ment, which abound at this season of the year? A 
Christmas family party! We know nothing in nature 
more dcdightful ! There seems a magic in the very name 
of Christmas. Petty jealousies and discords are forgot- 
ten ; social feelings are awakened, in bosoms to which 
they have long been strangers ; father and son, or brother 
and sister, who have met and passed with averted gaze, 


292 


SKETCHES BY BOZ. 


or a look of cold recognition, for nionths before, proffer 
and return the cordial embrace, and bury their past ani- 
mosities in their present happiness. Ejndly hearts that 
have yearned towards each other, but have been withheld 
by false notions of pride and self-dignity, are again re- 
united, and all is kindness and benevolence ! Would that 
Christmas lasted the whole year through (as it ought), 
and that the prejudices and passions which deform our 
better nature, were never called into action among those 
to whom they should ever be strangers ! ^ 

The Christmas family party that we mean, is not a 
mere assemblage of relations, got up at a week or two’s 
notice, originating this year, having no family precedent 
in the last, and not likely to be repeated in the next. 
No. It is an annual gathering of all the accessible mem- 
bers of the family, young or old, rich or poor ; and all 
the children look forward to it, for two months before- 
hand, in a fever of anticipation. Formerly, it was held 
at grandpapa’s ; but grandpapa getting old, and grand- 
mamma getting old too, and rather infirm, they have 
given up housekeeping, and domesticated themselves with 
uncle George ; so, the party always takes place at uncle 
George’s house, but grandmamma sends in most of the 
good things, and grandpapa always will toddle down, all 
the way to Newgate Market, to buy the turkey, which he 
engages a porter to bring home behind him in triumph, 
always insisting on the man’s being rewarded with a glass 
of spirits, over and above his hire, to drink “ a merry 
Christmas and a happy new year ” to aunt George. As 
to grandmamma, she is very secret and mysterious for 
two or three days beforehand, but not sufficiently so to 
prevent rumors getting afloat that she has purchased a 
beautiful new cap with pink ribbons for each of the ser- 


A CHRISTMAS DINNER. 


293 


vants, together with sundry books, and pen-knives, and 
pencil-cases, for the younger branches ; to say nothing of 
divers secret additions to the order originally given by 
aunt George at the pastry-cook’s, such as another dozen 
of mince-pies for the dinner, and a large plum-cake for 
the children. 

On Christmas Eve, grandmamma is always in excellent 
spirits, and after employing all the children, during the 
day, in stoning the plums, and all that, insists, regularly 
every year, on uncle George coming down into the 
kitchen, taking off his coat, and stirring the pudding 
for half an hour or so, which uncle George good-humor- 
edly does to the vociferous delight of the children and 
servants. The evening concludes with a glorious game 
of blind-man’s-buff, in an early stage of which grandpapa 
takes great care to be caught, in order that he may have 
an opportunity of displaying his dexterity. 

On the following morning, the old couple, with as many 
of the children as the pew will hold, go to church in 
great state : leaving aunt George at home dusting decan- 
ters and filling castors, and uncle George carrying bottles 
into the dining-parlor, and calling for cork-screws, and 
getting into everybody’s way. 

When the church-party return to lunch, grandpapa 
produces a small spring of mistletoe from his pocket, and 
tempts the boys to kiss their little cousins under it — a 
proceeding which affords both the boys and the old gen- 
tleman unlimited satisfaction, but which rather outrages 
grandmamma’s ideas of decorum, until grandpapa says, 
that when he was just thirteen ^ ears and three months 
old, he kissed grandmamma under a mistletoe too, on 
which the children clap their hands, and laugh very 
neartily, as do aunt George and uncle George ; and 


294 


SKETCHES BY BOZ. 


grandmamma looks pleased, and says, with a benevolent 
smile, that grandpapa was an impudent young dog, on 
which the children laugh very Heartily again, and grand- 
papa more heartily than any of them. 

But all these diversions are nothing to the subsequent 
excitement when grandmamma in a high cap, and slate- 
colored silk gown ; and grandpapa with a beautifully 
})laited shirt-frill, and wdiite neckerchief ; seat themselves 
on one side of the drawing-room fire, with uncle George’s 
children and little cousins innumerable, seated in the 
front, waiting the arrival of the expected visitors. Sud- 
denly a hackney-coach is heard to stop, and uncle George, 
who has been looking out of the window, exclaims, 
“ Here’s Jane ! ” on which the children rush to the door, 
and helter-skelter down-stairs ; and uncle Robert and 
aunt Jane, and the dear little baby, and the nurse, and 
the whole party, are ushered up-stairs amidst tumultuous 
shouts of “ Oh, my ! ” from the children, and frequently 
repeated warnings not to hurt baby from the nurse. And 
grandpapa takes the child, and grandmamma kisses her 
daughter, and the confusion of this first entry has scarce! 
subsided, when some other aunts and uncles with more 
cousins arrive, and the grown-up cousins flirt with each 
other, and so* do the little cousins too, for that matter, 
and nothing is to be heard but a confused din of talking, 
laughing, and merriment. 

A hesitating double knock at the street-door, heard 
during a momentary pause in the conversation, excites a 
general inquiry of “ Who’s that ? ” and two or three chil- 
dren, who have been standing at the window, announce 
in a low voice, that it’s “ poor aunt Margaret.” Upon 
which, aunt George leaves the room to welcome the new 
comer ; and grandmamma drawls herself up, rather stiff 


A CHRISTMAS DINNER. 


295 


and stately ; for Margaret married a poor man without 
her consent, and poverty not being a sufficiently weighty 
punishment for her offence, has been discarded by her 
friends, and debarred the society of her dearest relatives. 
But Christmas has come round, and the unkind feelings 
that have struggled against better dispositions during the 
year, have melted away before its genial influence, like 
half-formed ice beneath the morning sun. It is not diffi- 
cult in a moment of angry feeling for a parent to de- 
nounce a disobedient child ; but, to banish her at a period 
of general good will and hilarity, from the hearth, round 
which she has sat on so many anniversaries of the same 
day, expanding by slow degrees from infancy to girlhood, 
and then bursting, almost imperceptibly, into a woman, is 
widely different. The air of conscious rectitude, and cold 
forgiveness, which the old lady has assumed, sits ill upon 
her ; and when the poor girl is led in by her sister, pale 
in looks and broken in hope — not from poverty, for that 
she could bear, but from the consciousness of undeserved 
neglect, and unmerited unkindness — it is easy to see 
how much of it is assumed. A momentary pause suc- 
(‘.eeds ; the girl breaks suddenly from her sister and 
throws herself, sobbing, on her mother’s neck. The 
father steps hastily forward, and takes her husband’s 
hand. Friends crowd round to offer their hearty con- 
gratulations, and happiness and harmony again prevail. 

As to the dinner, it’s perfectly delightful — nothing 
goes wrong, and everybody is in the very best of spirits, 
and disposed to please and be pleased. Grandpapa 
relates a circumstantial account of the purchase of the 
turkey, with a slight digression relative to the purchase 
of previous turkeys, on former Christmas days, which 
grandmamma corroborates in the minutest particular. 


296 


SKETCHES BY BOZ. 


Uncle George tells stories, and carves poultry, and takes 
wine, and jokes with the children at the side-table, and 
winks at the cousins that are making love, or beino; made 
love to, and exhilarates everybody with his good humor 
and hospitality ; and when, at last, a stout servant stag- 
gei-s in with a gigantic pudding, with a sprig of holly in 
the top, there is such a laughing, and shouting, and clap- 
ping of little chubby hands, and kicking up of fat dumpy 
legs, as can only be equalled by the applause with which 
the astonishing feat of pouring lighted brandy into mmce- 
pies, is received by the younger visitors. Then the 
dessert ! — and the wine ! — and the fun ! Such beauti- 
ful speeches, and siich songs, from aunt Margaret’s hus- 
band, who turns out to be such a nice man, and so atten- 
tive to grandmamma ! Even grandpapa not only sings 
his annual song with unprecedented vigor, but on being 
honored with an unanimous encore^ according to annual 
custom, actually comes out with a new one which nobody 
but grandmamma ever heard before ; and a young scape- 
grace of a cousin, who has been in some disgrace with 
the old people, for certain heinous sins of omission and 
commission — neglecting to call, and persisting in drink- 
ing Burton ale — astonishes everybody into convulsions 
of laughter by volunteering the most extraordinary 
comic songs that ever were heard. And thus the even- 
ing passes, in a strain of rational good-will and cheerful- 
ness, doing more to awaken the sympathies of every 
member of the party in behalf of his neighbor, and to 
perpetuate their good feeling during the ensuing year, 
than half the homilies that have ever been written, by 
half the Divines that have ever lived. 


THE NEAV YEAR. 


297 


CHAPTER III. 

THE NEW YEAR. 

Next to Christmas Day, the most pleasant annual 
epoch in existence is the advent of the New Year. 
There are a lachrymose set of people who usher in the 
New Year with watching and fasting, as if they were 
bound to attend as chief mourners at the obsequies of 
the old one. Now, we cannot but think it a great deal 
more complimentary, both to the old year that has rolled 
away, and to the New Year that is just beginning to 
dawn upon us, to see the old fellow out, and the new one 
in, with gayety and glee. 

There must have been some few occurrences in the 
past year to which w,e can look back, with a smile of 
cheerful recollection, if not with a feeling of heartfelt 
thankfulness. And we are bound by every rule of 
justice and equity to give the New Year credit for 
being a good one, until he proves himself unworthy the 
confidence we repose in him. 

This is our view of the matter ; and entertaining it, 
notwithstanding our respect for the old year, one of 
the few remaining moments of w^hose existence passes 
away with every word we write, here we are, seated by 
our fireside on this last night of the old year, one thou- 
sand eight hundred and thirty-six, penning this article 
with as jovial a face as if nothing extraordinary had 
happened, or was about to happen, to disturb our good- 
humor. 


ns 


SKETCHES BY BOZ. 


Hackney-coaches and. carriages keep rattling up the 
street and down the street in rapid succession, convey- 
ing, doubtless, smartly dressed coachfuls to crowded par- 
ties ; loud and repeated double knocks at the house with 
g]*een blinds, opposite, announce to the whole neighbor- 
hood that there’s one large party in the street at all 
events ; and we saw through the window, and through 
the fog too, till it grew so thick that we rung for candles, 
and drew our curtains, pastry-cooks’ men with green 
boxes on their heads, and rout-furniture-warehouse-cai*ts, 
with cane seats and French lamps, hurrying to the 
numerous houses where an annual festival is held in 
honor of the occasion. 

We can fancy one of these parties, we think, as well 
as if we were duly dress-coated and pumped, and had 
just been announced at the drawing-room door. 

Take the house with the green blinds for instance. 
We know it is a quadrille party, because we saw some 
men taking up the front drawing-room carpet while we 
sat at breakfast this morning, and if further evidence be 
]*equired, and we must tell the truth, we just now saw 
one of the young ladies “ doing ” another of the young 
ladies’ hair, near one of the bedroom windows, in an 
unusual style of splendor, which nothing else but a qua- 
drille party could possibly justify. 

The master of the house with the green blinds is in a 
public office ; we know the fact by the cut of his coat, 
the tie of his neckcloth, and the self-satisfaction of his 
gait — the very green blinds themselves have a Somer- 
set-IIouse air about them. 

Hark ! — a cab ! That’s a junior clerk in the same 
office ; a tidy sort of young man, with a tendency to cold 
and corns, who comes in a pair of boots with black cloth 


THE NEW YEAR. 


299 


fronts, and brings his shoes in his coat-pocket, which 
shoes he is at this very moment putting on in the hall. 
Now, he is announced by the man in the passage to 
another man in a blue coat, who is a disguised messenger 
from the oflice. 

The man on the first landing precedes him to the 
drawing-room door. Mr. Tupple ! ” shouts the mes- 
senger. “ How are you, Tupple ” says the n) aster of 
the house, advancing from the fire, before which he has 
been talking politics and airing himself. “ My dear, this 
is Mr. Tupple (a courteous salute from the lady of the 
house) ; Tupple, my eldest daughter ; Julia, my dear, 
Mr. Tupple ; Tupple, my other daughters ; my son, 
sir;” Tupple rubs his hands very hard, and smiles as 
if it were all capital fun, and keeps constantly bowing 
and turning himself round, till the whole family have 
been introduced, when he glides into a chair at the, cor- 
ner of the sofa, and opens a miscellaneous conversation 
with the young ladies upon the weather, and the theatres, 
and the old year, and the last new murder, and the bal- 
loon, and the ladies’ sleeves, and the festivities of the 
season, and a great many other topics of small talk. 

More double knocks ! what an extensive party ; what 
an incessant hum of conversation and general sipping 
of coffee ! We see Tupple now, in our mind’s eye, in 
the height of his glory. He has just handed that stout 
old lady’s cup to the servant ; and now, he dives among the 
crowd of young men by the door, to intercept the other 
servant, and secure the muffin-plate for the old lady’s 
daughter, before he leaves the room ; and now, as he 
passes the sofa on his way back, he bestows a glance of 
recognition and patronage upon the young ladies, as 
condescending and familiar as if he had known them 
from infancy. 


300 


SKETCHES BY BOZ. 


Charming person Mr. Tupple — perfect ladies man — 
such a delightful companion, too ! Laugh ! — nobody 
^ ever understood papa’s jokes half so well as Mr. Tupple, 
who laughs himself into convulsions at every fresh burst 
of facetiousness. Most delightful partner ! talks through 
the whole set ! and although he does seem at first rather 
gay and frivolous, so romantic and with so much feeling! 
Quite a love. 'No great favorite with the young men, 
certainly, who sneer at, and affect to despise him ; but 
everybody knows that’s only envy, and they needn’t give 
themselves the trouble to depreciate his merits at any 
rate, for Ma says he shall be asked to every future din- 
ner-party, if it’s only to talk to people between the 
courses, and distract their attention when there’s any un- 
expected delay in the kitchen. 

At supper, Mr.. Tupple shows to still greater advan- 
tage, than he has done throughout the evening, and when 
Pa requests every one to fill their glasses for the pur- 
pose of drinking happiness throughout the year, Mr. 
Tupple is so droll : insisting on all the young ladies 
having their glasses filled, notwithstanding their repeated 
assurances that they never can, by any possibility, think 
of emptying them : and subsequently begging permission 
to say a few words on the sentiment which has just been 
uttered by Pa — when he makes one of the most bril- 
liant and poetical speeches that can possibly be imagined, 
about the old year and new one. After the toast has 
been drunk, and when the ladies have retired, Mr. Tup- 
ple requests that every gentleman will do him the favor 
of filling his glass, for he has a toast to propose : on 
W'hich all the gentlemen cry “Hear! hear!” and pass 
the decanters accordingly: and Mr. Tupple being in- 
formed by the master of the house that they are all 


THE NEW YEAR. 


301 


charged, and waiting for his toast, rises, and begs to 
remind the gentlemen present, how much they have 
been delighted by the dazzling array of elegance and 
beauty which the drawing-room has exhibited that night, 
and how their senses have been charmed, and their 
hearts captivated, by the bewitching concentration ot 
female loveliness which that very room has so recently 
displayed. (Loud cries of “Hear!”) Much as he 
(Tupple) would be. disposed to deplore the absence of 
the ladies, on other grounds, he cannot but derive some 
consolation from the reflection that the very circumstance 
of their not being present, enables him to propose a 
toast, which he would have otherwise been prevented 
from giving — that toast he beg3 to say is — “ The 
Ladies!” (Great applause.) The Ladies! among 
whom the fascinating daughters of their excellent host 
are alike conspicuous for their beauty, their accomplish- 
ments, and their elegance. He begs them to drain a 
bumper to “ The Ladies, and a happy new year to 
them ! ” (Prolonged approbation ; above which the 
noise of the ladies dancing the Spanish dance among 
themselves, overhead, is distinctly audible.) 

The applause consequent on this toast has scarcely 
subsided, when a young gentleman in a pink under- 
waistcoat, sitting towards the bottom of the table, is ob- 
served to grow very restless and fidgety, and to evince 
strong indications of some latent desire to give vent to 
his feelings in a speech, which the wary Tupple at once 
perceiving, determines to forestall by speaking himself. 
He, therefore, rises again, with an air of solemn impor- 
tance, and trusts he may be permitted to propose another 
toast (unqualified approbation, and Mr. Tupple proceeds). 
He is sure they must all be deeply impressed with the 


302 


SKETCHES BY BOZ. 


hospitality — he may say the splendor — with which 
they have been that night received by their worthy host 
and hostess. (Unbounded applause.) Although this is 
the first occasion on which he has had the pleasure and 
delight of sitting at that board, he has known his friend 
Dobble long and intimately ; he has been connected with 
him in business — he wishes everybody present knew 
Dobble as well as he does. (A cough from the host.) 
He (Tupple) can lay his hand upon his (Tupple’s) heart, 
and declare his confident belief that a better man, a 
better husband, a better father, a better brother, a better 
son, a better relation in any relation of life, than Dobble, 
never existed. (Loud cries of “ Hear ! ”) They have 
seen him to-night in the peaceful bosom of his family : 
they should see him in the morning, in the trying duties 
of his office. Calm in the perusal of the morning pa- 
pers, uncompromising in the signature of his name, digni- 
fied in his replies to the inquiries of stranger applicants, 
deferential in his behavior to his superiors, majestic in 
his deportment to the messengers. (Cheers.) When he 
bears this merited testimony to the excellent qualities of 
his friend Dobble, what can he say in approaching such 
a subject as Mrs. Dobble? Is it requisite for him to 
expatiate on the qualities of that amiable woman ? No ; 
he will spare his friend Dobble’s feelings ; he will spare 
the feelings of his friend — if he will allow him to have 
the honor of calling him so — Mr. Dobble, junior. (Here 
jMr. Dobble, junior, who has been previously distending 
his mouth to a considerable wudth, by thrusting a partic- 
ularly fine orange into that feature, suspends operations, 
and assumes a proper appearance of intense melancholy.) 
He will simply say — and he is quite certain it is a sen- 
timent in which all who hear him will readily concur — 


THE NEW YEAR. 


303 


that his friend Dobble is as superior to any man he ever 
knew, as Mrs. Dobble is far beyond any woman he ever 
saw (except her daughters) ; and he will conclude, by 
proposing their worthy “ Host and Hostess, and may they 
live to enjoy many more new years ! ” 

The toast is drunk with acclamation ; Dobble returns 
thanks, and the whole party rejoin the ladies in the 
drawing-room. Young men who were too bashful to 
dance before supper, find tongues and partners ; the mu- 
sicians exhibit unequivocal symptoms of having drunk 
the new year in, while the company were out ; and 
dancing is kept up, until far in the first morning of the 
new year. 

We have scarcely written the last word of the previous 
sentence, when the first stroke of twelve, peals from the 
neighboring churches. There certainly — we must con- 
fess it now — is something awful in the sound. Strictly 
speaking, it may not be more impressive now than at 
any other time ; for the hours steal as swiftly on at 
other periods, and their flight is little heeded. But we 
measure man’s life by years, and it is a solemn knell that 
warns us we have passed another of the landmarks which 
stand between us and the grave. Disguise it as we ma}^, 
the reflection will force itself on our minds, that when 
the next bell announces the arrival of a new year, we 
may be insensible alike of the timely Avarning we have 
so often neglected, and of all the warm feelings that glow 
within us now. 


304 


SKETCHES BY BOZ, 


CHAPTER IV. 

MISS EVANS AND THE EAGLE. 

Mr. Samuel Wilkins, was a carpenter, a journey- 
man carpenter of small dimensions, decidedly below the 
middle size — bordering, perhaps, upon the dwarfish. 
His face was round and shining, and his hair carefully 
twisted into the outer comer of each eye, till it formed a 
variety of that description of semi-curls, usually known 
as “ aggerawators.” His earnings were all-sufficient for 
his wants, varying from eighteen shillings to one pound 
five, weekly — his manner undeniable — his Sabbath 
waistcoats dazzling. No wonder that, with these quali- 
fications, Samuel Wilkins found favor in the eyes of the 
other sex : many women have been captivated by far less 
substantial qualifications. But, Samuel was proof against 
their blandishments, until at length his eyes rested on 
those of a Being for whom, from that time forth, he felt 
fate had destined him. He came, and conquered — 
proposed, and was accepted — loved, and was beloved. 
Mr. Wilkins “ kept company ” with Jemima Evans. 

Miss Evans (or Ivins, to adopt the pronunciation most 
in vogue witli her circle of acquaintance) had adopted in 
early life the useful pursuit of shoe-binding, to wdiich she 
had afterwards superadded the occupation of a straw- 
bonnet maker. Herself, her maternal parent, and two 
sisters, formed an hannonious quartet in the most se- 
cluded portion of Camdentown ; and here it was that 
Mr. Wilkins presented himself, one Monday afternoon, 


MISS EVANS AND THE EAGLE. 


305 


in his best attire, with his face more shining and his 
waistcoat more bright than either had ever appeared 
before. The family were just going to tea, and were so 
glad to see him. It was quite a little feast ; two ounces 
of seven-and-sixpenny green, and a quarter of a pound 
of the best fresh ; and JNIr. Wilkins had brought a pii t 
of shrimps, neatly folded up in a clean belcher, to give a 
zest to the meal, and propitiate Mrs. Ivins. Jemima was 
“ cleaning herself” up-stairs ; so Mr. Samuel Wilkins 
sat down and talked domestic economy with Mrs. Ivins, 
whilst the two youngest Miss Ivinses poked bits of lighted 
brown paper between the bars under the kettle to make 
the water boil for tea. 

‘‘ I wos a-thinking,” said Mr. Samuel Wilkins, during 
a pause in the conversation — I wos a-thinking of taking 
J’mima to the Eagle to-night.” — “ O my ! ” exclaimed 
Mrs. Ivins. “ Lor ! how nice 1 ” said the youngest Miss 
Ivins. “Well, I declare!” added the youngest Miss 
Ivins but one. “ Tell J’mima to put on her white 
muslin, Tilly,” screamed Mrs. Ivins, with motherly anx- 
iety ; and down came J’mima hei’self soon afterwards 
in a white muslin gown carefully hooked and eyed, a 
little red shawl, plentifully pinned, a white straw bonnet 
trimmed with red ribbons, a small necklace, a large 
pair of bracelets, Denmark satin shoes, and open-worked 
stockings ; white cotton gloves on her fingei's, and a cam- 
bric pocket-handkerchief, carefully folded up, in her hand 
— all quite genteel and ladylike. And away went Miss 
Jemima Ivins and Mr. Samuel Wilkins, and a dress cane, 
with a gilt knob at the top, to the admiration and envy 
of the street in general, and to the high gratification of 
Mrs. Ivins, and the two youngest Miss Ivinses in par- 
ticular. They had no sooner turned into the Pancras 

VOL. 1. 20 


306 


SKETCHES BY BOZ. 


Road, than who should Miss J’mima Ivins stumble upon, 
by the most fortunate accident in the world, but a young 
lady as she knew, with her young man ! — And it is so 
strange how things do turn out sometimes — they were 
actually going to the Eagle too. So Mr. Samuel Wil- 
kins was introduced to Miss J’mima Ivins’s friend’s 
young man, and they all walked on together, talking, 
and laughing, and joking away like anything ; and when 
they got as far as Pentonville, Miss Ivins’s friend’s young 
man would have the ladies go into the Crown, to taste 
some shrub, which, after a great blushing and giggling, 
and hiding of faces in elaborate pocket-handkerchiefs, 
they consented to do. Having tasted it once, they were 
easily prevailed upon to taste it again ; and they sat out 
in the garden tasting shrub, and looking at the Busses 
alternately, till it was just the proper time to go to the 
Eagle ; and then they resumed their journey, and walked 
very fast, for fear they should lose the beginning of the 
concert in the rotunda. 

“ How ev’nly ! ” said Miss Jemima Ivins, and Miss 
Jemima Ivins’s friend, both at once, when they had 
passed the gate and were fairly inside the gardens. 
There were the walks, beautifully gravelled and planted 
— and the refreshment-boxes, painted and ornamented 
like so many snuff-boxes — and the variegated lam})S 
shedding their rich light upon the company’s heads — 
and the place for dancing ready chalked for the com- 
pany's feet — and a Moorish band playing at one end of 
the gardens — and an opposition military band playing 
away at the other. Then, the waiters were rushing to 
and fro with glasses of negus, and glasses of brandy- 
and- water, and bottles of ale, and bottles of stout ; and 
ginger-beer was going off in one place, and practical jokes 


MISS EVANS AND THE EAGLE. 


307 


were going on in another ; and people were crowding to 
the door of the Rotunda ; and in short the whole scene 
was, as Miss J’mima Ivins, inspired by the novelty, or 
the shrub, or both, observed — “ one of dazzling excite- 
ment.” As to the concert-room, never was anything 
half so splendid. There was an orchestra for the sing- 
ers, all paint, gilding, and plate-glass ; and such an 
organ ! Miss J’mima Ivins’s friend’s young man whis- 
pered it had cost “four hundred pound,” which Mr. 
Samuel Wilkins said was “not dear neither;” an opin- 
ion in which the ladies perfectly coincided. The audi- 
ence were seated on elevated benches round the room, 
and crowded into every part of it ; and everybody was 
eating and drinking as comfortably as possible. Just 
before the concert commenced, Mr. Samuel Wilkins 
ordered two glasses of rum-and- water “ warm with — ” 
and two slices of lemon, for himself and the other young 
man, together with “ a pint o’ sherry wine for the ladies, 
and some sweet caraway-seed biscuits ; ” and they would 
have been quite comfortable and happy, only a strange 
gentleman with large whiskers would stare at Miss 
J’mima Ivins, and another gentleman in a plaid waist- 
coat woidd wink at Miss J’mima Ivins’s friend ; on which 
Miss J’mima Ivins’s friend’s young man exhibited symp- 
toms of boiling over, and began to mutter about “ people’s 
imperence,” and “ swells out o’ luck ; ” and to intimate, 
in oblique terms, a vague intention of knocking some- 
body’s head off; which he was only prevented from 
announcing more emphatically, by both Miss J’mima 
Ivins an.d her friend threatening to faint away on the 
spot if he said another word. 

The concert commenced — overture on the organ. 
“ How solemn ! ” exclaimed Miss J’mima Ivins, glancing, 


308 


SKETCHES BY BOZ. 


perhaps unconsciously, at the gentleman with the whis- 
kers. Mr. Samuel Wilkins, who had been muttering 
apart for some time past, as if he were holding a con- 
fidential conversation with the gilt knob of the dress 
cane, breathed hard — breathing vengeance, perhaps, — 
but said nothing. “ The soldier tired,” Miss Somebody 
in white satin. “Ancore!” cried Miss J’mima Ivins’s 
friend. “ Ancore ! ” shouted the gentleman in the plaid 
waistcoat immediately, hammering the table with a stout- 
bottle. Miss J’mima Ivins’s friend’s young man eyed 
the man behind the waistcoat from head to foot, and cast 
a look of interrogative contempt towards Mr. Samuel 
Wilkins. Comic song, accompanied on the organ. Miss 
J’mima Ivins was convulsed with laughter — so was the 
man with the whiskers. Everything the ladies did, the 
plaid waistcoat and whiskers did, by way of expressing 
unity of sentiment and congeniality of soul ; and Miss 
J niima Ivins, and Miss J’mima Ivins’s friend, grew lively 
and talkative, as Mr. Samuel Wilkins, and Miss J’mima 
Ivins’s friend’s young man, grew morose and surly in in- 
verse proportion. 

Now, if the matter had ended here, the little party 
might soon have recovered their former equanimity ; but 
Mr. Samuel Wilkins and his friend began to throw looks 
of defiance upon the waistcoat and whiskers. And the 
waistcoat and whiskers, by way of intimating the slight 
degree in which they were affected by the looks afore- 
said, bestowed glances of increased admiration upon Miss 
J’mima Ivins and friend. The concert and vaudeville 
concluded, they promenaded the gardens. The waistcoat 
and^ whiskers did the same ; and made divers remarks 
complimentary to .the ankles of Miss J’mima Ivins and 
friend, in an audible tone. At length, not satisfied 


MISS EVANS AND THE EAGLE. 


309 


with these numerous atrocities, they actually came up 
and asked Miss J’mima Ivins, and Miss J mima Ivins’s 
friend to dance, without taking no more notice of Mr 
Samuel Wilkins, and Miss J’mima Ivins’s friend s }'Oung 
man, than if they was nobody ! 

“ What do you mean by that, scoundrel ? ” exclaimed 
Mr. Samuel Wilkins, grasping the gilt-knobbed dress- 
cane firmly in his right hand. “ What’s the matter with 
you^ you little humbug ? ” replied the whiskers. “ How 
dare you insult me and my friend ? ” inquired the friend’s 
young man. ‘‘ You and your friend be hanged ! ” re- 
sponded the waistcoat. “ Take that,” exclaimed Mr. 
Samuel Wilkins. The ferrule of the gilt-knobbed dress- 
cane was visible for an instant, and then the light of the 
variegated lamps shone brightly upon it as it whirled 
into the air, cane and all. “ Give it him,” said the waist- 
coat. “ Ilorficer ! ” screamed the ladies. Miss J’mima 
Ivins’s beau, and the friend’s young man, lay gasping 
on the gravel, and the waistcoat and whiskers were seen 
no more. 

Miss J’mima Ivins and friend being conscious that the 
affray was in no slight degree attributable to themselves, 
of course went into hysterics forthwith ; declared them- 
selves the most injured of women ; exclaimed, in inco- 
herent ravings, that they had been suspected — wrong- 
fully suspected — oh ! that they should ever have lived 
to see the day — and so forth ; suffered a relapse every 
time they opened their eyes and saw their unfortunate 
little admirers ; and were carried to their respective 
abodes in a hackney-coach, and a state of insensibility, 
compounded of shrub, sherry, and excitement. 


310 


SKETCHES BY BOZ. 


CHAPTER V. 

THE PARLOR ORATOR. 

We had been lounging one evening, down Oxford 
Street, Holborn, Cheapside, Coleman Street, Finsbury 
Square, and so on, with the intention of returning west- 
ward, by Pentonville and the New Road, when we be- 
gan to feel rather thirsty, and disposed to rest for five or 
ten minutes. So, we turned back towards an old, quiet, 
decent public-house, which we remembered to have 
passed but a moment before (it was not far from the 
City Road), for the purpose of solacing ourself with a 
glass of ale. The house was none of your stuccoed, 
French-polished, illuminated palaces, but a modest pub- 
lic-house of the old school, with a littler old bar, and a 
little old landlord, who, with a wife and daughter of the 
same pattern, was comfortably seated in the bar afore- 
said — a snug little room with a cheerful fire, protected 
by a large screen : from behind which the young lady 
emerged on our representing our inclination for a glass 
of ale. 

“Won’t you walk into the parlor, sir?” said the young 
lady, in seductive tones. 

“ You had better walk into the parlor, sir,” said the 
little old landlord, throwing his chair back, and look- 
ing round one side of the screen, to survey our ap- 
pearance. 

“ You had much better step into the parlor, sir,” said 
the little old lady, popping out her head, on the other 
side of the screen. 


THE EARLOIi ORATOR. 


311 


We cast a slight glance around, as if to express our 
ignorance of the locality so much recommended. The 
little old landlord observed it ; bustled out of the small 
door of the small bar ; and forthwith ushered us into the 
parlor itself. 

It was an ancient, dark-looking room, with oaken 
wainscoting, a sanded floor, and a high mantel-piece. The 
walls were ornamented with three or four old colored 
prints in black frames, each print representing a naval 
engagement, with a couj^le of men-of-war banging away 
at each other most vigorously, while another vessel or 
two were blowing up in the distance, and the foreground 
presented a miscellaneous collection of broken masts and 
blue legs sticking up out of the water. Depending from 
the ceiling in the centre of the room, were a gas-light 
and bell-pull ; on each side were three or four long nar- 
row tables, behind which was a thickly planted row of 
those slippery, shiny looking wooden chairs, peculiar to 
hostelries of this description. The monotonous appear- 
ance of the sanded boards was relieved by an occasional 
spittoon ; and a triangular pile of those useful articles 
adorned the two upper corners of the apartment. 

At the furthest table, nearest the fire, with his face 
towards the door at the bottom of the room, sat a stout- 
ish man of about forty, whose short, stiflT, black hair 
curled closely round a broad high forehead, and a face 
to which something besides Avater and exercise had com- 
municated a rather inflamed appearance. He Avas smok- 
ing a cigar, Avith his eyes fixed on tlie ceiling, and had 
that confident oracular air Avhich marked him as the lead- 
ing politician, general authority, and universal anecdote- 
relater, of the place. He had evidently just delivered 
himself of something very Aveighty ; for the remainder 


312 


SKETCHES BY BOZ. 


of the company were puffing at their respective pipes 
and cigars in a kind of solemn abstraction, as if quite 
overwhelmed with the magnitude of the subject recently 
under discussion. 

On his right hand sat an elderly gentleman with a 
white head, and broad-brimmed brown hat ; on his left, a 
sharp-nosed, light-haired man in a brown surtout reach- 
ing nearly to his heels, who took a whiff at his pipe, 
and an admiring glance at the red-faced man, alter- 
nately. 

“ Very extraordinary ! ” said the light-haired man after 
a pause of five minutes. A murmur of assent ran 
through the company. 

“ Not at all extraordinary — not at all,” said the red- 
faced man, awakening suddenly from his reverie, and 
turning upon the light-haired man, the moment he had 
spoken. 

Why should it be extraordinary ? — why is it ex- 
tmordinary ? — prove it to be extraordinary ! ” 

‘‘ Oh, if you come to that — ” said the light-haired 
man, meekly. 

‘‘ Come to that ! ” ejaculated the man with the red 
face ; “ but we must come to that. We stand, in these 
times, upon a calm elevation of intellectual attainment, 
and not in the dark recess of mental deprivation. 
Proof, is what I require — proof, and not assertions, in 
these stirring times. Every genTem’n that knows me, 
knows what was the nature and effect of my observa- 
tions, when it was in the contemplation of the Old Street 
Subuiban Representative Discovery Society, to recom- 
mend a candidate for that place in Cornwall there — I 
forget the name of it. ‘ Mr. Snobee,’ said Mr. Wilson, 

‘ is a fit and proper person to represent the borough in 


THE rAIiLOK OKATOU. 


313 


Parliament.’ ‘ Prove it,’ sajs I. ‘ He is a friend tc 
Reform,’ says Mr. Wilson. ‘ Prove it,’ says I. ‘ The 
abolitionist of the national debt, the unflinching opponent 
of pensions, the uncompromising advocate of the negro, 
the reducer of sinecures and the duration of Parlia- 
ments ; the extender of nothing but the sufirages of the 
people,’ says Mr. Wilson. ‘ Prove it,’ says I. ‘ His 
acts prove it,’ says he. ‘ Prove them^ says I. 

“ And he could not prove them,” said the red-faced man, 
looking round triumphantly; “and the borough didn't 
have him ; and if you carried this principle to the full 
extent, you’d have no debt, no pensions, no sinecures, 
no negroes, no nothing. And then, standing upon an 
elevation of intellectual attainment, and having reached 
the summit of popular prosperity, you might bid defiance 
to the nations of the earth, and erect yourselves in the 
proud confidence of wisdom and superiority. This is 
my argument — this always has been my argument — 
and if I was a Member of the House of Commons to- 
morrow, I’d make ’em shake in their shoes with it.” 
And the red-faced man, having struck the table very 
hard with his clenched list, to add weight to the decla- 
ration, smoked aw^ay like a brew^ery. 

“ Well ! ” said the sharp-nosed man, in a very slow and 
soft voice, addressing the company in general, “ I always 
do say, that of all the gentlemen I have the pleasure of 
meeting in this room, there is not one whose conversation 
I like to hear so much as Mr. Rogers’s, or wlio is such 
improving company.” 

“ Improving company ! ” said Mr. Rogers, for that, it 
seemed, was the name of the red- faced man, “ You may 
say I am improving company, for I’ve improved you all 
to some purpose ; though as to my conversation being as 


314 


SKETCHES BY BO^. 


my friend Mi’. Ellis here describes it, that is not for me to 
say anything about. You, gentlemen, are the best judges 
on that point ; but this I will say, when I came into this 
parish, and first used this room, ten years ago, I don’t 
believe there was one man in it who knew he was a slave 
— and now you all know it, and writhe under it. In- 
scribe that upon my tomb, and I am satisfied.’’ 

“ Why, as to inscribing it on your tomb,” said a little 
greengrocer with a chubby face, “ of course you can have 
anything chalked up, as you likes to pay for, so far as it 
relates to yourself and your affairs ; but, when you come 
to talk about slaves and that there abuse, you’d better 
keep it in the family, ’cos I for one don’t like to be called 
them names, night after night.” 

“ You are a slave,” said the red-faced man, “ and the 
most pitiable of all slaves.” 

‘‘ Werry hard if I am,” interrupted the greengrocer, 
“ for I got no good out of the twenty million that was 
paid for ’mancipation, any how.” 

A willing slave,” ejaculated the red-faced man, 
getting more red with eloquence and contradiction — 
“ resigning the dearest birthright of your children — 
neglecting the sacred call of LibeiTy — who, standing 
imploringly before you, appeals to the warmest feelings 
of your heart, and points to your helpless infants but in 
vain.” 

“ Prove it,” said the greengrocer. 

“ Prove it ! ” sneered the man with the red face. 
“ What ! bending beneath the yokb of an insolent and 
factious oligarchy; bowed down by the domination of 
cruel laws ; groaning beneath tyranny and oppression on 
every hand, at every side, and in every corner. Prove 
it ? — ” The red-faced man abruptly broke off, sneered 


THE PARLOR ORATOR. 


315 


melo-dramaticallj, and buried his countenance and his 
indignation together, in a quart pot. 

Ah, to be sure, Mr. Rogers,’’ said a stout broker in a 
large waistcoat, who had kept his eyes fixed on this 
luminary all the time he was speaking. “Ah, to be 
sure,” said the broker with a sigh, “ that’s the point.” 

“ Of course, of course,” said divers members of the 
company, who understood almost as much about the 
matter as the broker himself. 

“ You had better let him alone. Tommy,” said the 
broker, by way of advice to the little greengrocer, “ he 
can tell what’s o’clock by an eight-day, without looking 
at the minute hand, he can. Try it on, on some other 
suit ; it won’t do wdth him. Tommy.” 

“ What is a man ?” continued the red-faced specimen 
of the species, jerking his hat indignantly from its peg 
on the wall. “ What is an Englishman ? Is he to be 
trampled upon by every oppressor ? Is he to be knocked 
down at everybody’s bidding ? What’s freedom ? Not 
a standing army. What’s a standing army ? Not free- 
dom. What’s general happiness ? Not universal misery. 
Liberty a’n’t the window-tax, is it ? The Lords a’n’t the 
Commons, are they ? ” And the red-faced man, gradu- 
ally bursting into a radiating sentence, in which such 
adjectives as “ dastardly,” “ oppressive,” “ violent,” and 
“ sanguinary,” formed the most conspicuous words, knocked 
his hat indignantly over his eyes, left the room, and 
slammed the door after him. 

“ Wonderful man ! ” said he of the sharp nose. 

“ Splendid speaker ! ” added the broker. 

“ Great power ! ” said everybody but the greengrocer. 
And as they said it, the whole party shook their heads 
mysteriously, and one by one retired, leaving us alone in 


316 


SKETCHES BY BOZ. 


the old parlor. If we had followed the established prece- 
dent in all such instances, we should have fallen into a 
fit of musing, without delay. The ancient appearance 
of the room — the old panelling of the wall — the chim- 
ney blackened with smoke and age — would have carried 
us back a hundred years at least, and we should have 
gone dreaming on, until the pewter-pot on the table, or 
the little beer-chiller on the fire, had started into life, 
and addressed to us a long story of days gone by. But, 
by some means or other, we were not in a romantic 
humor ; and although we tried very hard to invest the 
furniture with vitality, it remained perfectly unmoved, 
obstinate, and sullen. Being thus reduced to the un- 
pleasant necessity of musing about ordinary matters, our 
thoughts reverted to the red-faced man, and his oratorical 
display. 

A numerous race are these red-faced men ; there is 
not a parlor, or club-room, or benefit society, or humble 
party of any kind, without its red-faced man. Weak- 
pated dolts they are, and a great deal of mischief they 
do to their cause, however good. So, just to hold a 
pattern one up, to know the others by, we took his like- 
ness at once, and put him in here. And that is tlie 
reason w'hy we have written this paper. 


THE HOSPITAL PATIENT. 


317 


CHAPTER VI. 

THE HOSPITAL PATIENT. 

In our rambles through the streets of London after 
evening has set in, we often pause beneath the windows of 
some public hospital, and picture to ourselves the gloomy 
and mournful scenes that are passing within. The sud- 
den moving of a taper as its feeble ray shoots from 
window to window, until its light gradually disappears, 
as if it were carried farther back into the room to the 
bedside of some suffering patient, is enough to awaken a 
whole crowd of reflections : the mere glimmering of th(; 
low-burning lamps, which, when all other habitations an? 
wrapped in darkness and slumber, denote the chambei* 
where so many forms are writhing with pain, or wasting 
with disease, is sufficient to check the most boisterous 
merriment. 

Who can tell the anguish of those weary hours, when the, 
only sound the sick man hears, is the disjointed wander- 
ings of some feverish slumberer near him, the low moan 
of pain, or perhaps the muttered, long-forgotten prayer of 
a dying man ? Who, but they who have felt it, can imag- 
ine the sense of loneliness and desolation which must be 
the portion of those who in the hour of dangerous illness 
are left to be tended by strangers ; for what hands, be they 
ever so gentle, can wipe the clammy brow, or smooth the 
restless bed, like those of mother, wife, or child ? 

Impressed with these thoughts, we have turned away, 
through the nearly deserted streets ; and the sight of 


318 


SKETCHES BY BOZ. 


the few miserable creatures still hovering about them, 
has not tended to lessen the pain which such meditations 
awaken. The hospital is a refuge and resting-place for 
hundreds, who but for such institutions must die in the 
streets and doorways ; but what can be tlie feelings of 
some outcasts when they are stretched on the bed of sick- 
ness with scarcely a hope of recovery ? The wretched 
woman who lingers about the pavement, hours after 
midnight, and the miserable shadow of a man — the 
ghastly remnant that want and drunkenness have left — 
which crouches beneath a window-ledge, to sleep where 
there is some shelter from the rain, have little to bind 
them to life, but what have they to look back upon, in 
death ? What are the unwonted comforts of a roof and 
a bed, to them, when the recollections of a whole life of 
debasement stalk before them ; when repentance seems 
a mockery, and sorrow comes too late ? 

About a twelvemonth ago, as we were strolling through 
Covent Garden, (we had been thinking about these things 
overnight,) we were attracted by the very prepossessing 
appearance of a pickpocket, who having declined to take 
the trouble of walking to the Police Office on the ground 
that he hadn’t the slightest wish to go there at all, was 
being conveyed thither in a wheelbarrow, to the huge 
delight of a crowd. 

Somehow, we never can resist joining a crowd, so we 
turned back with the mob, and entered the office, in 
company with our friend the pickpocket, a couple of 
policemen, and as many dirty-faced spectators as could 
squeeze their way in. 

There was a powerful, ill-looking young fellow at the 
bar, who was undergoing an examination, on the very 
common charge of having, on the previous night, ill- 


THE HOSPITAL PATIENT. 


319 


treated a woman, with whom he lived in some court 
hard by. Several witnesses bore testimony to acts of 
the grossest brutality ; and a certificate was read from 
the house-surgeon of a neighboring hospital, describing 
the nature of the injuries the woman had received, and 
intimating that her recovery w^as extremely doubtful. 

Some question appeared to have been raised about 
the identity of the prisoner ; for when it was agreed 
that the two magistrates should visit the hospital at eight 
o’clock that evening, to take her deposition, it was settled 
that the man should be taken there also. He turned 
pale at this, and we saw him clench the bar very hard 
when the order was given. He was removed directly 
afterwards, and he spoke not a word. 

We felt an irrepressible curiosity to witness this inter- 
view, although it is hard to tell w^hy, at this instant, for 
we knew it must be a painful one. It was no very 
difficult matter for us to gain permission, and we ob- 
tained it. 

The prisoner, and the officer who had him in custody, 
were already at the hospital wffien we reached it, and 
waiting the arrival of the magistrates in a small room 
below stairs. The man was handcuffed, and his hat was 
pulled forward over his eyes. It was easy to see, though,' 
by the whiteness of his countenance, and the constant 
twitching of the muscles of his face, that he dreaded 
what was to come. After a short interval, the magis- 
trates and clerk were bowed in by the house-surgeon and 
a couple of young men who smelt very strong of tobacco- 
smoke — they were introduced as dressers ” — and 
after one magistrate had complained bitterly of the cold, 
and the other of the absence of any news in the evening 
paper, it was announced that the patient was prepared ; 


320 


SKETCHES BY BOZ. 


and we were conducted to the “ casualty ward in which 
she was lying. 

The dim light which burnt in the spacious room, in- 
creased rather than diminished the ghastly appearance 
of the hapless creatures in the beds, which were ranged 
in two long rows on either side. In one bed lay a child 
enveloped in bandages, with its body half consumed by 
tire ; in another, a female, rendered hideous by some 
dreadful accident, was wildly beating her clenched fists 
on the coverlet, in pain ; on a third, there lay stretched 
a young girl, apparently in the heavy stupor often the 
immediate precursor of death : her face was stained with 
blood, and her breast and arms were bound up in folds 
of linen. Two or three of the beds were empty, and 
their recent occupants were sitting beside them, but with 
faces so wan, and eyes so bright and glassy, that it was 
fearful to meet their gaze. On every face was stamped 
tlie expression of anguish and suffering. 

The object of the visit was lying at the upper end of 
the room. She was a fine young woman of about two 
or three-and-twenty. Her long black hair, which had 
been hastily cut from near the wounds on her head, 
streamed over the pillow in jagged and matted locks. 
Her face bore deep marks of the ill-usage she had re- 
ceived : her hand was pressed upon her side, as if her 
chief pain were there; her breathing was short and. 
heavy ; and it was plain to see that she was dying fast. 
She murmured a few words in reply to the magistrate’s 
inquiry whether she was in great pain ; and, having been 
raised on the pillow by the nurse, looked vacantly upon 
the strange countenances that surrounded her bed. The 
magistrate nodded to the officer to bring the man for- 
ward. He did so, and stationed him at the bedside. 


THE HOSPITAL PATIENT. 


321 


The girl looked on with a wild and troubled expression 
of face ; but her sight was dim, and she did not know 
him. 

“ Take off his hat,” said the magistrate. The officer 
did as he was desired, and the man’s features were dis- 
closed. 

The girl started up, with an energy quite preternatu- 
ral ; the fire gleamed in her heavy eyes, and the blood 
rushed to her pale and sunken cheeks. It was a convul- 
sive effort. She fell back upon her pillow, and covering 
her scarred and bruised face with her hands, burst into 
tears. The man cast an anxious look towards her, but 
otherwise appeared wholly unmoved. After a brief 
pause the nature of their errand was explained, and the 
oath tendered. 

“ Oh, no, gentlemen,” said the girl, raising herself once 
more, and folding her hands together ; “ no, gentlemen, 
for God’s sake ! I did it myself — it was nobody’s fault 
— it was an accident. He didn’t hurt me ; he wouldn’t 
for all the world. Jack, dear Jack, you know you 
wouldn’t ! ” 

Her sight was fast failing her, and her hand groped 
over the bedclothes in search of his. Brute as the man 
was, he was not prepared for this. He turned his face 
from the bed, and sobbed. The girl’s color changed, and 
her breathing grew more difficult. She was evidently 
dying. 

“ We respect the feelings which prompt you to this,” 
said the gentleman who had spoken first, “ but let me 
warn you, not to persist in what you know to be untrue, 
until it is too late. It cannot save him.” 

“ Jack,” murmured the girl, laying her hand upon his 
arm, ‘‘ they shall not persuade me to swear your life 

VOL. I. 21 


322 


SKETCHES BY BOZ. 


away. He didn’t do it, gentlemen. He never hurt me/ 
She grasped his arm tightly, and added, in a broken 
whisper, “ I hope God Almighty will forgive me all the 
wrong I have done, and the life I have led. God bless 
you. Jack. Some kind gentleman take my love to my 
poor old father. Five years ago, he said he wished I 
had died a child. Oh, I wish I had ! I wish I had ! ” 
The nurse bent over the girl for a few seconds, and 
then drew the sheet over her face. It covered a corpse. 


CHAPTER VIL 

THE MISPLACED ATTACHMENT OF MR. JOHN DOUNCE. 

If we had to make a classification of society, there 
are a particular kind of men whom we should immedi- 
ately set down under the head of “ Old Boys ; ” and a 
column of most extensive dimensions the old boys would 
require. To what precise causes the rapid advance of 
old boy population is to be traced, we are unable to 
determine. It would be an interesting and curious spec- 
ulation, but, as we have not sufficient space to devote to 
it here, we simply state the fact that the numbers of the 
old boys have been gradually augmenting within the 
last few years, and that they are at this moment alarm- 
inc^lv on the increase. 

• Upon a general review of the subject, and without 
considering it minutely in detail, we should be disposed 
to subdivide the old boys into two distinct classes — the 
gay old boys and the steady old bo3^s. The gay old boys 


MISPLACED ATTACHMENT OF MR. BOUNCE. 323 

are paunchy old men in the disguise of young ones, who 
frequent the Quadrant and Regent Street in the day- 
time : the theatres (especially theatres under lady man- 
agement) at night ; and who assume all the foppishness 
and levity of boys, without the excuse of youth or 
inexperience. The steady old boys are certain stout 
old gentlemen of clean appearance, who are always to 
be seen in the same taverns, at the same hours every 
evening, smoking and drinking in the same company. 

There was once a fine collection of old boys to be 
seen round the circular table at Offley’s every night, 
between the hours of half-past eight and half-past eleven. 
We have lost sight of them for some time. There were, 
and may be still, for aught we know, two splendid speci- 
mens in full blossom at the Rainbow Tavern in Fleet 
Street, who always used to sit in the box nearest the 
fireplace, and smoked long cherry-stick pipes which went 
under the table, with the bowls resting on the floor. 
Grand old boys they were — fat, red-faced, white-headed, 
old fellows — always there — one on one side the table, 
and the other opposk'e — puffing and drinking away in 
great state. Everybody knew them, and it was supposed 
by some people that they were both immortal. 

Mr. John Dounce was an old boy of the latter class 
(we don’t mean immortal, but steady), a retired glove 
and braces maker, a widower, resident with three daugh- 
ters — all grown up, and all unmarried — in Cursitor 
Street, Chancery Lane. He was a short, round, large- 
faced, tubbish sort of man, with a broad-brimmed hat, 
and a square coat ; and had that grave, but confident, 
kind of roll, peculiar to old boys in general. Regular as 
clock-work — breakfast at nine — dress and tittivate a 
little — down to the Sir Somebody’s Head — glass of ale 


324 


SKETCHES BY BOZ. 


and the paper — come back again, and take daughters out 
for a walk — dinner at three — glass of grog and pipe — 
nap — tea — little walk — Sir Somebody’s Head again 
— capital house — delightful evenings. There’ were 
Mr. Harris the law-stationer, and Mr. Jennings, the 
lobe-maker (two jolly young fellows like himself), and 
Jones, the barrister’s clerk — rum fellow that Jones — 
capital company — full of anecdote ! — and there they 
sat every night till just ten minutes before twelve, drink- 
ing their brandy-and-water, and smoking their pipes, and 
telling stories, and enjoying themselves with a kind of 
solemn joviality particularly edifying. 

Sometimes Jones would propose a half-price visit to 
Drury Lane or Covent Garden, to see two acts of a five- 
act play, and a new farce, perhaps, or a ballet, on which 
occasions the whole four of them went together ; none of 
your hurrying and nonsense, but having their brandy- 
and-water first, comfortably, and ordering a steak and 
some oysters for their supper against they came back, 
and then walking coolly ^ito the pit, when the “ rush ” 
had gone in, as all sensible peoplgig^p, and did when Mr. 
Bounce was a young man, except when the celebrated 
Master Betty was at the height of his popularity, and 
then, sir, — then — Mr. Bounce perfectly well remem- 
bered getting a holiday from business ; and going to the 
pit doors at eleven o’clock in the forenoon, and waiting 
there, till six in the afternoon, with some sandwiches in a 
pocket-handkerchief and some wine in a phial ; and faint- 
ing after all, with the heat and fatigue before the play 
began ; in which situation he was lifted out of the pit, 
into one of the dress boxes, sir, by five of the finest 
women of that day, sir, who compassionated his situation 
and administered restoratives, and sent a black servant, 


MISPLACED ATTACHMENT OF MR. BOUNCE. 325 


8ix foot high, in blue and silver livery, next morning 
with their compliments, and to know how he found him- 
self, sir — by G — ! Between tlie acts Mr. Bounce and 
Mr. Harris, and Mr. Jennings, used to stand up, and look 
round the house, and Jones — knowing fellow that Jones 
— knew everybody, pointed out the fashionable and cele- 
brated lady So-and-So in the boxes, at the mention of 
whose name Mr. Bounce, after brushing up his hair, and 
adjusting his neckerchief, would inspect the aforesaid 
lady So-and-So through an immense glass, and remark, 
either, that she was a “ tine woman — very fine woman, 
indeed,” or that there might be a little more of her, — 
eh, Jones ? ” just as the case might happen to be. When 
the dancing began, John Bounce and the other old boys 
were particularly anxious to see what was going forward 
on the stage, and Jones — wicked dog that Jones — whis- 
pered little critical remarks into the ears of John Bounce, 
which John Bounce retailed to Mr. Harris, and Mr. 
Harris to Mr. Jennings ; and then they all four lauglied, 
until the tears ran down, out of their eyes. 

When the curtain fell, they walked back together, two 
and two, to the steaks and oysters ; and when they came 
to the second glass of brandy-and- water, Jones — hoaxing 
scamp, that Jones — used to recount how he had ob^ 
served a lady in wliite feathers, in one of the pit boxes, 
gazing intently on Mr. Bounce all the evening, and how 
he had caught Mr. Bounce, whenever he thought no one 
was looking at him, bestowing ardent looks of intense de- 
votion on the lady in return ; on which Mr. Harris and 
Mr. Jennings used to laugh very heartily, and John 
Bounce more heartily than either of them, acknowledging, 
however, that the time had been when he might have done 
such things ; upon which Mr. Jones used to poke him in 


326 


SKETCHES BY BOZ. 


the ribs, 'and tell him he had been a sad dog in his time, 
which John Dounce, with chuckles confessed. And after 
Mr. Harris and Mr. Jennings had preferred their claims 
to the character of having been sad dogs too, they sepa- 
rated harmoniously, and trotted home. 

The decrees of Fate, and the means by which they 
are brought about, are mysterious and inscrutable. John 
Dounce had led this life for twenty years and upwards, 
without wish for change, or care for variety, when his 
whole social system was suddenly upset, and' turned com- 
pletely topsy-turvy — not by an earthquake, or some 
other dreadful convulsion of nature, as the reader would 
be inclined to suppose, but by the simple agency of an 
oyster; and thus it happened. 

Mr. John Dounce was returning one night from the 
Sir Somebody’s Head, to his residence in Cursitor Street 
— not tipsy, but rather excited, for it was Mr. Jennings's 
birthday, and they had had a brace of partridges for sup- 
per, and a brace of extra glasses afterwards, and Jones 
had been more than ordinarily amusing — when his eyes 
rested on a newly opened oyster-shop, on a magnificent 
scale, with natives laid, one deep, in circular marble 
basins in the windows, together with little round barrels 
of oysters directed to Lords and Baronets, and Colonels 
and Captains, in every part of the habitable globe. 

Behind the natives were the barrels, and behind the 
barrels was a young lady of about five-and-twenty, all in 
blue, and all alone — splendid creature, charming face, 
and lovely figure ! It is difiicult to say whether Mr. John 
Bounce’s red countenance, illuminated as it was by the 
flickering gas-light in the window before which he paused, 
excited the lady’s risibility, or whether a natural exuber- 
ance of animal spirits proved too much for that staidness 


MISPLACED ATTACHMENT OF MR. DOUNCE. 327 


of demeanor which the forms of society rather dictato- 
rially prescribe. But certain it is that the lady smiled ; 
then put her finger upon her lip, with a striking recollec- 
tion of what was due to herself ; and finally retired, in 
oyster-like bashfulness, to the very back of the counter. 
The sad-dog sort of feeling came strongly upon John 
Bounce : he lingered — the lady in blue made no sign. 
He coughed — still she came not. He entered the 
shop. 

“ Can you open me an oyster, my dear ? ” said Mr. 
John Bounce. 

“ Bare say I can, sir,” replied the lady in blue, with 
playfulness. And Mr. John Bounce ate one oyster, and 
then looked at the young lady, and then ate another, and 
then squeezed the young lady’s hand as she was opening 
the third, and so forth, until he had devoured a dozen of 
those at eightpence in less than no time. 

“ Can you open me half a dozen more, my dear ? ” 
inquired Mr. John Bounce. ‘ 

I’ll see what I can do for you, sir,” replied the young 
lady in blue, even more bewitchingly than before ; and 
Mr. John Bounce ate half a dozen more of those at eight- 
pence. 

“ You couldn’t manage to get me a glass of brandy- 
and-water, my dear, I suppose ? ” said Mr. John Bounce, 
when he had finished the oysters ; in a tone which clearly 
implied his supposition that she could. 

‘‘ I’ll see, sir,” said the young lady ; and away she ran 
out of the shop, and down the street, her long auburn 
ringlets shaking in the wind in the most enchanting 
manner ; and back she came again, tripping over the 
coal-cellar lids like a whipping-top, with a tumbler of 
braiidy-and-water, which Mr. John Bounce insisted on 


328 


SKETCHES BY BOZ. 


her taking a share of, as it was regular ladies* grog — 
hot, strong, sweet, and plenty of it. 

So, the young lady sat down with Mr. John Dounce, 
in a little fed box with a green curtain, and took a small 
sip of the brandy-and- water, and a small look at Mr. 
John Dounce, and then turned her head away, and went 
through various other serio-pantomimic fascinations which 
forcibly reminded Mr. John Dounce of the first time he 
courted his first wife, and which made him feel more 
affectionate than ever ; in pursuance of which affection, 
and actuated by which feeling, Mr. John Dounce 
sounded the young lady on her matrimonial engage- 
ments, when the young lady denied having formed any 
such engagements at all — she couldn’t abear the men, 
they were such deceivers ; thereupon Mr. John Dounce 
inquired whether this sweeping condemnation was meant 
to include other than very young men ; on which the 
young lady blushed deeply — at least she turned away 
her head, and said Mr. John Dounce had made her 
blush, so of course she did blush — and Mr. John 
Dounce was a long time drinking the brandy-and-water ; 
and, at last, John Dounce went home to bed, and dreamed 
of his first wife, and his second wife, and the young lady, 
and partridges, and oysters, and brandy-and-water, and 
disinterested attachments. • 

The next morning, John Dounce was rather feverish 
with the extra brandy-and-water of the previous night ; 
and partly in the hope of cooling himself with an oyster, 
and partly with the view of ascertaining whether he 
owed the young lady anything, or not, went back to the 
oyster-shop. If the young lady had appeared beautiful 
by night, she was perfectly irresistible by day ; and, from 
this time forward, a change came over the spirit of John 


MISPLACED ATTACHMENT OF MR. DOUNCE. 329 

Doimce’s dream. He bought shirt-pins ; wore a ring on 
his third finger ; read poetry ; bribed a cheap miniature- 
painter to perpetuate a faint resemblance to a youthful 
face, with a curtain over his head, six large books in the 
background, and an open country in the distance (this he 
called his portrait) ; “ went on ” altogether in such an 
uproarious manner, that the three Miss Bounces went 
off on small pensions, he having made the tenement in 
Cursitor Street too warm to contain them ; and in short, 
comported and demeaned himself in every respect like 
an unmitigated old Saracen, as he was. 

As to his ancient friends, the other old boys, at the Sir 
Somebody’s Head, he dropped off from them by gradual 
degrees ; for, even when he did go there, Jones — vulgar 
fellow that Jones — persisted in asking when it was 
to be?”, and, “whether he was to have any gloves?” 
together with other inquiries of an equally offensive na- 
ture : at which not only Harris laughed, but Jennings 
also ; so, he cut the two, altogether^ and attached him- 
self solely to the blue young lady at the smart oyster- 
shop. 

Now comes the moral of the story — for it has a moral 
after all. The last-mentioned young lady, having de- 
rived sufficient profit and emolument from John Bounce’s 
attachment, not only refused, when matters came to a 
crisis, to take him for better for worse, but expressly de- 
clared, to use her own forcible words, that she “ wouldn’t 
have him at no price ; ” and John Bounce, having lost 
his old friends, alienated his relations, and rendered him- 
self ridiculous to everybody, made offers successively to 
a schoolmistress, a landlady, a feminine tobacconist, and 
a-housekeeper ; and, being directly rejected by each and 
every of them, was accepted by his cook, with whom he 


330 


SKETCHES BY BOZ. 


now lives, a henpecked husband, a melancholy monu- 
ment of antiquated misery, and a living warning to all 
uxorious old boys. 


CHAPTER VIIL 

THE MISTAKEN MILLINER. A TALE OF AMBITION. 

Miss Amelia Martin was pale, tallish, thin, and 
two - and - thirty — what ill-natured people would call 
plain, and police reports interesting. She was a milliner 
and dressmaker, living on her business and not above it 
If you had been a young lady in service, and had wanted 
Miss Martin, as a great many young ladies in service 
did, you would just have stepped up, in the evening, to 
number forty-seven, Drummond Street, George Street, 
Euston Square, and after casting your eye on a brass 
door-plate, one foot ten by one and a half, ornamented 
with a great brass knob at each of the four corners, and 
bearing the inscription ‘‘ Miss Martin ; millinery and 
dressmaking, in all its branches ; ” you’d just hi^ve 
knocked two loud knocks at the street-door ; and down 
would have come Miss Martin herself, in a merino gown 
of the newest fashion, black velvet bracelets on the gen- 
teelest principle, and other little elegances of the most 
approved description. 

If Miss Martin knew the young lady who called, or 
if the young lady who called had been recommended by 
any other young lady whom Miss Martin knew. Miss 
Martin would forthwith show her up-stairs into the two 


THE MISTAKEN MILLINER. 


331 


pair front, and chat she would — so kind, and so com- 
fortable — it really wasn’t like a matter of business, she 
was so friendly ; and, then Miss Martin, after contem- 
plating the figure and general appearance of the young 
lady in service with great apparent admiration, would 
say how well she would look, to-be-sure, in a low dress 
with short sleeves : made very full in the skirts, with 
four tucks in the bottom ; to which the young lady in 
service would reply in terms expressive of her entire 
concurrence in the notion, and of the virtuous indigna- 
tion with which she refiected on the tyranny of “ Missis,” 
who wouldn’t allow a young girl to wear a short sleeve 
of an arternoon — no, nor nothing smart, not even a pair 
of ear-rings; let alone hiding people’s heads of hair 
under them frightful caps. At the termination of this 
complaint. Miss Amelia Martin would distantly suggest 
certain dark suspicions that some people were jealous on 
account of their own daughters, and were obliged to 
keep their servants’ charms under, for fear they should 
get married first, which was no uncommon circumstance 
— leastways she had known two or three young ladies in 
service, who had married a great deal better than their 
mississes, and they were not very good-looking either ; 
and then the young lady would inform Miss Martin, in 
confidence, that how one of their young ladies was en- 
gaged to a young man and was agoing to be married, 
and Missis was so proud about it there was no bearing 
of her ; but how she needn’t hold her head quite so high 
neither, for, after all, he was only a clerk. And, after 
expressing due contempt for clerks in general, and the 
engaged clerk in particular, and the highest opinion pos- 
sible of themselves and each other. Miss Martin and the 
young lady in service would bid each other good nighty 


832 


SKETCHES BY BOZ. 


in a friendly but perfectly genteel manner : and the one 
went back to her “ place,” and the othei*, to her room on 
the second-floor front. 

There is no saying how long Miss Amelia Martin 
might have continued this course of life ; how extensive 
a connection she might have established among young 
ladies in service ; or what amount her demands upon 
thtjir quarterly recei2)ts might have ultimately attained, 
had not an unforeseen train of circumstances directed 
her thoughts to a sphere of action very different from 
dressmaking or millinery. 

A friend of Miss Martin’s who had long been keeping 
company with an ornamental painter and decorator’s jour- 
neyman, at last consented (on being at last asked to do 
so) to name the day which would make the aforesaid 
journeyman a happy husband. It was a Monday that 
was appointed for the celebration of the nuptials, and 
Miss Amelia Martin was invited, among others, to honor 
the wedding-dinner with her presence. It was a charm- 
ing party ; Somers’ town the locality, and a front-parlor 
the apartment. The ornamental painter and decorator’s 
journeyman had taken a house — no lodgings nor vul- 
garity of that kind, but a house — - four beautiful rooms, 
and a delightful little washhouse at the end of the 
passage — which was the most convenient thing in the 
world, for the bridesmaids could sit in the front-parlor 
and receive the company, and then run into the little 
washhouse and see how the pudding and boiled pork 
were getting on in the copper, and then pop back into 
the parlor again, as snug and comfortable as possible. 
And such a parlor as it was ! Beautiful Kidderminster 
carpet — six bran-new cane-bottomed stained chairs — 
three wine-glasses and a tumbler on each sideboard — 


THE MISTAKEN MILLINER. 


333 


farmer’s girl and farmer’s boy on the mantel-piece : girl 
tumbling over a stile, and boy spitting himself, on the 
handle of a pitchfork — long white dimity curtains in 
the window — and, in short, everything on the most 
genteel scale imaginable. 

Then, the dinner. There was baked leg of mutton at 
the top, boiled leg of mutton at the bottom, pair of fowls 
and leg of pork in the middle ; porter-pots at the corners ; 
pepper, mustard, and vinegar in the centre ; vegetables 
on the floor ; and plum-pudding and apple-pie and tart- 
lets without number : to say nothing of cheese, and cel- 
ery, and water-cresses, and all that sort of thing. As to 
the company ! Miss Amelia Martin herself declared, on 
a subsequent occasion, that, much as she had heard of 
the ornamental painter’s journeyman’s connection, she 
never could have supposed it was half so genteel. There 
was his father, such a funny old gentleman — and his 
mother, such a dear old lady — and his sister, such a 
charming girl — and his brother, such a manly-looking 
young man — with such a eye ! But even all these were 
as nothing when compared with his musical friends, Mr. 
and Mrs. Jennings Rodolph, from White Conduit, with 
whom the ornamental painter’s journeyman had been for- 
tunate enough to contract an intimacy while engaged in 
decorating the concert-room of that noble institution. 
To hear them sing separately, was divine, but when they 
went through the tragic duet of “ Red Ruffian, retire 1 ” 
it was, as Miss Martin afterwards remarked, “ thrilling.” 
And why (as Mr. Jennings Rodolph observed), w^hy were 
they not engaged at one of the patent theatres ? If he 
was to be told that their voices were not powerful enough 
to fill the House, his only reply was, that he would back 
himself for any amount to fill Russell Square — a state- 


334 


SICETCHES BY BOZ. 


merit in which the company, after hearing the duet, 
expressed their full belief ; so they all said it was shame- 
ful treatment ; and both Mr. and Mrs. Jennings Eodolph 
said it was shameful too ; and Mr. Jennings Rodolph 
looked very serious, and said he knew who his malignant 
opponents were, but they had better take care how far 
they went, for if they irritated him too much he had not 
quite made up his mind whether he wouldn’t bring the 
subject before Parliament ; and they all agreed that it 
“ ’ud serve ’em quite right, and it was very proper that 
such people should be made an example of.” So Mr. 
Jennings Rodolph said he’d think of it. 

When the conversation resumed its former tone, Mr. 
Jennings Rodolph claimed his right to call upon a lady, 
and the right being conceded, trusted Miss Martin would 
favor the company — a proposal which met with unani- 
mous approbation, whereupon Miss Martin, after sundry 
hesitatings and coughings, with a preparatory choke or 
two, and an introductory declaration that she was fright- 
ened to death to attempt it before such great judges of 
the art, commenced a species of treble chirruping con- 
taining frequently allusions to some young gentleman of 
Jie name of Hen-e-ry, with an occasional reference to 
madness and broken hearts. Mr. Jennings Rodolph fre- 
quently interrupted the progress of the song, by ejacu- 
lating “ Beautiful ! ” — “ Charming ! “ Brilliant ! ” — 

“ Oh ! splendid,” &c. ; and at its close the admiration of 
himself, and his lady, knew no bounds. 

“ Did you ever hear so sweet a voice, my dear ? ” in- 
quired Mr. Jennings Rodolph of Mrs. Jennings Rodolph. 

“ Never ; indeed I never did, love ; ” replied Mrs. Jen- 
nings Rodolph. 

“ Don’t you think Miss Martin^ with a little cultiva- 


THE MISTAKEN MILLINER. 


335 


tion, would be very like Signora Marra Boni, my dear ? * 
asked Mr. Jennings Rodolph. 

“ Just exactly the very thing that struck me, my 
love,” answered Mrs. Jennings Rodolph. 

And thus the time passed away ; Mr. Jennings Ro- 
dolph played tunes on a walking-stick, and then went 
behind the parlor-door and gave his celebrated imitations 
of actors, edge-tools, and animals ; Miss Martin sang 
several other songs with increased admiration every 
time ; and even the funny old gentleman began sing- 
ing. His song had properly seven verses, but as he 
couldn’t recollect more than the first one, he sang that 
over, seven times, apparently very much to his own per- 
sonal gratification. And then all the company sang the 
national anthem with national independence — each for 
himself, without reference to the other — and finally sep- 
arated : all declaring that they never had spent so pleas- 
ant an evening : and Miss Martin inwardly resolving to 
adopt the advice of Mr. Jennings Rodolph, and to “ come 
out ” without delay. 

Now “ coming out,” either in acting, or singing, or 
society, or facetiousness, or anything else, is all very 
well, and remarkably pleasant to the individual prin- 
cipally concerned, if he or she can but manage to come 
out with a burst, and being out, to keep out, and not go 
in again ; but, it does unfortunately happen that both 
consummations are extremely difficult to accomplish, and 
that the difficulties, of getting out at all in the first in- 
stance, and if you surmount them, of keeping out in the 
second, are pretty much on a par, and no slight ones 
either — and so Miss Amelia Martin shortly discovered. 
It is a singular fact (there being ladies in the case) that 
Miss Amelia Martin’s principal foible was vanity, and 


38G 


SKETCHES BY BOZ. 


the leading characteristic of Mrs. Jennings Rodolph an 
attachment to dress. Dismal wailings were heard to 
issue from the second floor front, of number forty-seven, 
Drummond Street, George Street, Euston Square ; it 
was Miss Martin practising. Half-suppressed murmurs 
disturbed the calm dignity of the White Conduit orches- 
tra at the commencement of the season. It was the 
appearance of Mrs. Jennings Rodolph in full dress, that 
occasioned them. Miss Martin studied incessantly — 
the practising was the consequence. Mrs. Jennings Ro- 
dolph taught gratuitously now and then — the dresses 
were the result. 

Weeks passed away ; the White Conduit season had 
])egun, had progressed, and was more than half over. 
The dressmaking business had fallen off, from neglect ; 
and its profits had dwindled away almost imperceptibly. 

benefit -night approached; Mr. Jennings Rodolph 
yielded to the earnest solicitations of Miss Amelia 
Martin, and introduced her personally to the “ comic 
gentleman ” whose benefit it was. The comic gentleman 
was all smiles and blandness — he had composed a duet, 
expressly for the occasion, and Miss Martin should sing 
it with him. The night arrived ; there was an immense 
room — ninety -seven sixpenn’orths of gin -and- water, 
thirty-two small glasses of brandy-and-water, five-and* 
twenty bottled ales, and forty-one neguses ; and the 
ornamental painter’s journeyman, with his wife and a 
select circle of acquaintance, were seated at one of the 
side-tables near the orchestra. The concert began. Song 
— sentimental — by a light-haired young gentleman in 
a blue coat, and bright basket buttons [applause]. An- 
other song, doubtful, by another gentleman in another 
blue coat and more bright basket buttons — [increased 


THE MISTAKEN MILLINER. 


337 


applause]. Duet, Mr. Jennings Rodolph, and Mrs. Jen- 
nings Rodolph, ‘‘ Red Ruffian retire ! ” — [great ap- 
plause]. Solo, Miss Julia Montague (positively on this 
occasion only) — “I am a Friar” — [enthusiasm]. Orig- 
inal duet, comic — Mr. H. T aplin (the comic gentleman) 
and Miss Martin — “ The Time of Day.” Bray vo ! 
— Brayvo ! ” cried the ornamental painter’s journeyman’s 
party, as Miss Martin was gracefully led in by the comic 
gentleman. ‘‘ Go to work, Harry,” cried the comic gen- 
tleman’s personal friends. “ Tap — tap — tap,” went the 
leader’s bow on the music-desk. The symphony began, 
and was soon afterwards followed by a faint kind of ven- 
triloquial chirping, proceeding apparently from the deep- 
est recesses of the interior of Miss Amelia Martin. 
“ Sing out ” — shouted one gentleman in a white great- 
coat. Don’t be afraid to put the steam on, old gal,” ex- 
claimed another. “ S — s — s — s — s — s — s ” — went the 
five-and-twenty bottled ales. ‘‘ Shame, shame ! ” remon- 
strated the ornamental painter’s journeyman’s party — 
“ S — s — s — s ” went the bottled ales again, accompanied 
by all the gins, and a majority of the brandies. 

‘‘ Turn them geese out,” cried the ornamental painter’s 
journeyman’s party, with great indignation. 

‘‘ Sing out,” whispered Mr. Jennings Rodolph. 

“ So I do,” responded Miss Amelia Martin. 

“ Sing louder,” said Mrs. Jennings Rodolph. 

“ I can’t,” replied Miss Amelia Martin. 

“ Off, off, off,” cried the rest of the audience. 

“ Bray-vo ! ” shouted the painter’s party. It wouldn’t 
do — Miss Amelia Martin left the orchestra, with much 
less ceremony than she had entered it ; and, as she 
couldn’t sing out, never came out. The general good- 

humor was not restored until Mr. Jennings Rodolph had 
VOL. I. 22 


338 


SKETCHES BY BOZ. 


become purple in the face, by imitating divers quadru- 
ped for half an hour, without being able to render him- 
self audible ; and, to this day, neither has Miss Amelia 
Martin s good-humor been restored, nor the dresses made 
for and presented to Mrs. Jennings Rodolph, nor the 
vocal abilities which Mr. Jennings Rodolph once staked 
his professional reputation that Miss Martin possessed. 


END OF VOL. I. 




Taat 31 f 











SKETCHES BY BOZ, 


ILLUSTRATIVE OF 


EVERY-DAY LIFE AND EVERY-DAY PEOPLE. 


VOLUME II. 



\(>n Yii 


M4^iQm. ikihrM 'm hhu 








SKETCHES BY BOZ. 


CHAEACTERS. 


(continued.) 


CHAPTER IX. 

THE DANCING ACADEMY. 

Op all the dancing academies that ever were estab- 
lished, there never was one more popular in its immedi- 
ate vicinity than Signor Billsmethi’s, of the “ King’s 
Theatre.” It was not in Spring Gardens, or Newman 
Street, or Berners Street, or Gower Street, or Charlotte 
Street, or Percy Street, or any other of the numerous 
streets which have been devoted time out of mind to 
professional people, dispensaries, and boarding-houses ; 
*it was not in the West End at all — it rather approxi- 
mated to the eastern portion of London, being situated 
in the populous and improving neighborhood of Gray’s 
Inn Lane. It was not a dear dancing academy — four- 
and-sixpence a quarter is decidedly cheap upon the 
whole. It was very select, the number of pupils being 
strictly limited to seventy-five, and a quarter’s payment 
in advance being rigidly exacted. There was public 
tuition and private tuition — an assembly-room and a 
parlor. Signor Bellsmethi’s family were always thrown 
in with the parlor, and included in parlor price ; that is 
to say, a private pupil had Signor Billsmethi’s parlor to 


8 


SKETCHES BY BOZ. 


dance ^7^, and Signor Billsmethi’s family to dance with , 
and when he had been sufficiently broken in in the parlor, 
he began to run in couples in the Assembly-room. 

Such was the dancing academy of Signor Billsmethi, 
when Mr. Augustus Cooper, of Fetter Lane, first saw 
an unstamped advertisement walking leisurely down Hol- 
born Hill, announcing to the world that Signor Bill- 
smethi, of the King’s Theatre, intended opening for the 
season with a Grand Ball. 

Now, Mr. Augustus Cooper was in the oil and color 
line — just of age, with a little money, a little business, 
and a little mother, who having managed her husband 
and his business in his lifetime took to managing her son 
and his business after his decease ; and so, somehow or 
other, he had been cooped up in^ the little back-parlor 
behind the shop on week days, and in a little deal box 
without a lid (called by courtesy a pew) at Bethel 
Chapel, on Sundays, and had seen no more of the world 
than if he had been an infant all his days ; whereas 
Young White, at the Gas-fitter’s over the way,' three 
years younger than him, had been flaring away like 
winkin’ — going to the theatre — supping at harmonic 
meetings — eating oysters by the barrel — drinking stout 
by the gallon — even stopping out all night, *and coming 
home as cool in the morning as if nothing had happened. 
So Mr. Augustus Cooper made up his mind that he 
would not stand it any longer, and had that very morn- 
ing expressed to his mother a firm determination to be 
“ blowed,” in the event of his not being instantly pro- 
vided with a street-door key. And he was walking down 
Holborn Hill, thinking about all these things, and won- 
dering how he could manage to get introduced into gen- 
teel society for the first time, when his eyes rested on 


THE DANCING ACADEMY. 


9 


Signor Billsmethi’s announcement, which it immediately 
struck him was just the very thing he wanted ; for he 
should not only be able to select a genteel circle of ac- 
quaintance at once, out of the five-and-seventy pupils at 
four-and-sixpence a quarter, but should qualify himself 
at the same time to go through a hornpipe in private 
society, with perfect ease to himself, and great delight to 
his friends. So, he stopped the unstamped advertise- 
ment — an animated sandwich, composed of a boy be- 
tween two boards — and having procured a very small 
card with the Signor’s address indented thereon, walked 
straight at once to the Signor’s house — and very fast he 
walked too, for fear the list should be filled up, and the 
five-and-seventy completed, before he got there. The 
Signor was at home, and, what was still more gratifying, 
he was an Englishman ! Such a nice man — and so 
polite ! The list was not full, but it was a most extraor- 
dinary circumstance that there was only just one va- 
cancy, and even that one would have been filled up, that 
very morning, only Signor Billsmethi was dissatisfied 
with the reference, and, being very much afraid that the 
lady wasn’t select, wouldn’t take her. 

“ And very much delighted I am, Mr. Cooper,” said 
Signor Billsmethi, “ that I did not take her. I assure 
you, Mr. Cooper — I don’t say it to fiatter you, for I 
know you’re above it — that I consider myself extremely 
fortunate in having a gentleman of your manners and 
appearance, sir.” 

“ I am very glad of it too, sir,” said Augustus Cooper. 

And I hope we shall be better acquainted, sir,” said 
Signor Billsmethi. 

“ And I’m sure I hope we shall too, sir,” responded 
Augustus Cooper. Just then, the door opened, and in 


10 


SKETCHES BY BOZ. 


came a young lady, with her hair curled in a crop all 
over her head, and her shoes tied in sandals all over her 
ankles. 

“ Don’t run away, my dear,” said Signor Billsmethi ; 
for the young lady didn’t know Mr. Cooper was there 
when she ran in, and was going to run out again in her 
modesty, all in confusion-like. “ Don’t run away, m^ 
dear,” said Signor Billsmethi, “this is Mr. Cooper — 
Mr. Cooper, of Fetter Lane. Mr. Cooper, my daughter, 
sir — Miss Billsmethi, sir, who I hope will have the 
pleasure of dancing many a quadrille, minuet, gavotte, 
country-dance, fandango, double hornpipe, and farinaghol-, 
kajingo with you, sir. She dances them all, sir ; and so 
shall you, sir, before you’re a quarter older, sir.” 

And Signor Billsmethi slapped Mr. Augustus Cooper 
on the back, as if he had known him a dozen years, — 
so friendly ; — and Mr. Cooper bowed to the young lady, 
and the young lady courtesied to him, and Signor Bill- 
smethi said they were as handsome a pair as ever he’d 
wish to see ; upon which the young lady exclaimed, 
“ Lor, pa ! ” and blushed as red as Mr. Cooper himself 
— you might have thought they were both standing 
under a red lamp at a chemist’s shop ; and before Mr. 
Cooper went away it was settled that he should join the 
family circle that very night — taking them just as they 
were — no ceremony nor nonsense of that kind — and 
learn his positions, in order that he might lose no time, 
and be able to come out at the forthcoming ball. 

Well; Mr. Augustus Cooper went away to one of the 
cheap shoemakers’ shops in Holborn, where gentlemen’s 
dress-pumps are seven-and-sixpence, and men’s strong 
walking just nothing at all, and bought a pair of the 
regular seven-and-sixpenny, long-quartered town-mades, 


THE DANCING ACADEMY. 


11 


in which he astonished himself quite as much as his 
mother, and sallied forth to Signor Billsmethi’s. Thei-o 
were four other private pupils in the parlor: two ladies and 
two gentlemen. Such nice people ! Not a bit of pride 
about them. One of the ladies in particular, who was in 
training for a Columbine, was remarkably affable ; and 
she and Miss Billsmethi took such an interest in Mr. 
Augustus Cooper, and joked and smiled, and looked so 
bewitching, that he got quite at home, and learnt his 
steps in no time. After the practising was over. Signor 
Billsmethi, and Miss Billsmethi, and Master Billsmethi, 
and a young lady, and the two ladies, and the two gen- 
tlemen, danced a quadrille — none of your slipping and 
sliding about, but regular* warm work, flying into cor- 
ners, and diving among chairs, and shooting out at the 
door, — something like dancmg ! Signor Billsmethi in 
particular, notwithstanding his having a little Addle to 
play all the time, was out on the landing every figure, and 
Master Billsmethi, when everybody else was breathless, 
danced a hornpipe, with a cane in his hand, and a cheese- 
plate on his head, to the unqualified admiration of the 
whole company. Then, Signor Billsmethi insisted as 
they were so happy, that they should all stay to supper, 
and proposed sending Master Billsmethi for the beer and 
spirits, whereupon the two gentlemen swore, strike ’em 
wulgar if they’d stand that;” and were just going to 
quarrel who should pay for it, when Mr. Augustus 
Cooper said he would, if they’d have the kindness to 
allow him — and they had the kindness to allow him ; 
and Master Billsmethi brought the beer in a can, and 
the rum in a quart-pot. They had a regular night of it; 
and Miss Billsmethi squeezed Mr. Augustus Cooper’s 
hand under the table ; and Mr. Augustus Cooper re- 


12 


SKETCHES BY BOZ. 


turned the squeeze and returned home too, at something 
to six o’clock in the morning, when he was put to bed 
by main force by the apprentice, after repeatedly express- 
ing an uncontrollable desire to pitch his revered parent 
out of the second-floor window, and to throttle the ap- 
prentice with his own neck-handkerchief. 

Weeks had worn on, and the seven-and-sixpenny town- 
mades had nearly worn out, when the night arrived for 
the grand dress-ball at which the whole of the five-and- 
seventy pupils were to meet together, for the first time 
that season, and to take out some portion of their re- 
spective four-and-sixpences in lamp-oil and fiddlers. Mr. 
Augustus Cooper had ordered a new coat for the occa- 
sion — a two-pound-tenner fuom Turnstile. It was his 
first appearance in public ; and, after a grand Sicilian 
shawl-dance by fourteen young ladies in character, he 
was to open the quadrille department with Miss Bill- 
smethi herself, with whom he had become quite intimate 
since his first introduction. It was a night ! Everything 
was admirably arranged. The sandwich-boy took the 
hats and bonnets at the street-door ; there was a turn-up 
bedstead in the back parlor, on which Miss Billsmethi 
made tea and coffee for such of the gentlemen as chose 
to pay for it, and such of the ladies as the gentlemen 
treated ; red port-wine negus and lemonade were handed 
round at eighteen-pence a head ; and in pursuance of a 
previous engagement with the public-house at the corner 
of the street, an extra pot-boy was laid on for the occa- 
sion. In short, nothing could exceed the arrangements, 
except the company. Such ladies ! Such pink silk 
stockings ! Such artificial flowers ! Such a number of 
cabs ! No sooner had one cab set down a couple of ladies, 
than another cab drove up and set down another couple of 


THE DANCING ACADEMY. 


13 


ladies, and they all knew : not only one another, but the 
majority of the gentlemen into the bargain, which made 
it all as pleasant and lively as could be. Signor Bill- 
smethi, in black tights, with a large blue bow in his 
buttonhole, introduced the ladies to such of the gentle- 
men as were strangers : and the ladies talked away — 
and laughed they did — it was delightful to see them. 

As to the shawl-dance, it was the most exciting thing 
that ever was beheld ; there was such a whisking, and 
rustling, and fanning, and getting ladies into a tangle 
with artificial flowers, and then disentangling them again ! 
And as to Mr. Augustus Cooper’s share in the quadrille, 
he got through it admirably. He was missing from his 
partner, now and then, certainly, and discovered on such 
occasions to be either dancing with laudable perseverance 
in another set, or sliding about in perspective, without 
any definite object ; but generally speaking, they man- 
aged to shove him through the figure, until he turned up 
in the right place. Be this as it may, when he had 
finished, a great many ladies and gentlemen came up 
and complimented him very much, and said they had 
never seen a beginner do anything like it before ; and 
Mr. Augustus Cooper was perfectly satisfied with him- 
self, and everybody else into the bargain ; and “ stood ” 
considerable quantities of spirits-and-water, negus, and 
compounds, for the use and behoof of two or three dozen 
very particular friends, selected from the select circle of 
five-and-seventy pupils. 

Now, whether it was the strength of the compounds, 
or the beauty of the ladies, or what hot, it did so happen 
that Mr. Augustus Cooper encouraged, rather than re- 
pelled, the very flattering attentions of a young lady in 
brown gauze o\'er white calico who had appeared partic- 


14 


SKETCHES BY BOZ. 


ularly struck with him irom the first ; and when the en 
couragements had been prolonged for some time, Miss 
Billsmethi betrayed her spite and jealousy thereat by 
calling the young lady in brown gauze a “ creeter,” 
which induced the young lady in brown gauze to retort, 
in certain sentences containing a taunt founded on the 
payment of four-and-sixpence a quarter, which reference 
Mr. Augustus Cooper, being then and there in a state of 
considerable bewilderment, expressed his entire concur- 
rence in. Miss Billsmethi, thus renounced, forthwith 
began screaming in the loudest key of her voice, at the 
rate of fourteen screams a minute ; and being unsuccess- 
ful, in an onslaught on the eyes and face, first of the lady 
in gauze and then of Mr. Augustus Cooper, called dis- 
tractedly on the other three-and-seventy pupils to furnish 
her with oxalic acid for her own private drinking ; and, 
the call not being honored, made another rush at Mr. 
Cooper, and then had her stay-lace cut, and was carried 
off to bed. Mr. Augustus Cooper, not being remarkable 
for quickness of apprehension, was at a loss to under- 
stand what all this meant, until Signor Billsmethi ex- 
plained it in a most satisfactory manner, by stating to 
the pupils that ]VIi\ Augustus Cooper had made and 
confirmed divers promises of marriage to his daughter 
on divers occasions, and had now basely deserted her ; 
on which, the indignation of the pupils became universal ; 
and as several chivalrous gentlemen inquired rather 
pressingly of Mr. Augustus Cooper, whether he required 
anything for his own use, or, in other words, whether he 
‘‘ wanted anything for himself,” he deemed it prudent to 
make a precipitate retreat. And the upshot of the 
matter was, that a lawyer^s letter came next day, and an 
action was commenced next week ; and that Mr. Augus- 


SHABBY-(^ENTEEL PEOPLE. 


15 


tns Cooper, after walking twice to the Serpentine for the 
purpose of drowning himself, and coming twice back 
without doing it, made a confidante of his mother, who 
compromised the matter with twenty pounds from the 
till : which made twenty pounds four shillings and six- 
pence paid to Signor Billsmethi, exclusive of treats and 
pumps. And Mr. Augustus Cooper went back and lived 
with his mother, and there he lives to this day ; and as 
he has lost his ambition for society, and never goes into 
the world, he will never see this account of himself, and 
will never be any 'the wiser. 


CHAPTER X. 

SHABBY-GENTEEL PEOPLE. 

There are certain descriptions of people who, oddly 
enough, appear to appertain exclusively to the metropolis. 
You meet them, every day, in the streets of London, but 
no one ever encounters them elsewhere ; they seem indig- 
enous to the soil, and to belong as exclusively to London 
as its own smoke, or the dingy bricks and mortar. We 
could illustrate the remark by a variety of examples, 
but, in our present sketch, we will only advert to one 
class as a specimen — that class which is so aptly and 
expressively designated as “ shabby-genteel.” 

Xow, shabby people, God knows, may be found any- 
where, and genteel people are not articles of greater 
scarcity out of London than in it ; but this compound 
of the two — this shabby-gentility — is as purely local 


16 


SKETCHItS BY ROZ. 


as the statue at Charing Cross, or the pump at Aldgate^ 
It is worthy of remark, too, that only men are shabby- 
genteel ; a woman is always either dirty and slovenly in 
the extreme, or neat and respectable, however poverty- 
stricken in appearance. A very poor man, “who has 
seen better days,” as the phrase goes, is a strange com- 
pound of dirty slovenliness and wretched attempts at 
laded smartness. 

We will endeavor to explain our conception of the 
term which forms the title of this paper. If you meet 
a man, lounging up Drury Lane, or* leaning with his 
back against a post in Long Acre, with his hands in the 
pockets of a pair of drab trousers plentifully besprinkled 
with grease-spots : the trousers made very full over the 
boots, and ornamented with two cords down the outside 
of each leg — wearing, also, what has been a brown coat 
with bright buttons, and a hat very much pinched up at 
the sides, cocked over his right eye — don’t pity him. 
He is not shabby-genteel. The “ harmonic meetings ” at 
some fourth-rate public-house, or the purlieus of a private 
theatre, are his chosen haunts ; he entertains a rooted 
antipathy to any kind of work, and is on familiar terms 
with several pantomime men at the large houses. But, 
if you see hurrying along a by-street, keeping as close 
as he can to the area-railings, a man of about forty or 
fifty, clad in an old rusty suit of threadbare black cloth 
which shines with constant wear as if it had been bees- 
waxed — the trousers tightly strapped down, partly for 
the look of the thing and partly to keep his old shoes 
from slipping off at the heels, — if you observe, too, that 
his yellowish-white neckerchief is carefully pinned up, 
to conceal the tattered garment underneath, and that his 
hands are encased in the I’emiiants of an old pair of 


SHABBY-GENTEEL PEOPLE. 


17 


beaver gloves, you may set him down as a shabby-gen- 
teel man. A glance at that depressed face, and timorous 
air of conscious poverty, will make your heart ache — 
always supposing that you are neither a philosopher nor 
a political economist. 

We were once haunted by a shabby-genteel man ; he 
was bodily present to our senses all day, and he was in 
our mind’s eye all night. The man of whom Sir Walter 
Scott speaks in his Demonology, did not suffer half the 
persecution from his imaginary gentleman-usher in black 
velvet, that we sustained from our friend in quondam 
black cloth. He first attracted our notice by sitting 
opposite to us in the reading-room of the British Mu- 
seum ; and what made the man more remarkable was, 
that he always had before him a couple of shabby-gen- 
teel books — two old dogs-eared folios, in mouldy worm- 
eaten covers, which had once been smart. He was in 
his chair, every morning, just as the clock struck ten ; 
he was always the last to leave the room in the after- 
noon ; and when he did, he quitted it with the air of a 
man who knew not where else to go, for warmth and 
quiet. There he used to sit all day, as close to the table 
as possible, in order to conceal the lack of buttons on 
his coat : with his old hat carefully deposited at his feet, 
where he evidently flattered himself it escaped observa- 
tion. 

About two o’clock, you would see him munching a 
French roll or a penny loaf ; not taking it boldly out of 
his pocket at once, like a man who knew he was only 
making a lunch ; but breaking off little bits in his pocket, 
and eating them by stealth. He knew too well it was 
his dinner. 

When we first saw this poor object, we thought it 

VOL. n. 2 


18 


SKETCHES BY BOZ. 


quite impossible that his attire could ever become worse. 
We even went so far, as to speculate on the possibility 
of his shortly appearing in a decent second-hand suit. 
We knew nothing about the matter ; he grew more and 
more shabby-genteel every day. The buttons dropped 
oflP his waistcoat one by one ; then, he buttoned his coat ; 
and when one side of his coat was reduced to the same 
condition as the waistcoat, he buttoned it over on the other 
side. He looked somewhat better at the beginning of 
the week than at the conclusion, because the neckerchief, 
though yellow, was not quite so dingy ; and, in the midst 
of all this wretchedness, he never appeared without 
gloves and straps. He remained in this state for a week 
or two. At length, one of the buttons on the back of 
the coat fell off, and then the man himself disappeared, 
and we thought he was dead. 

We were sitting at the same table about a week after 
his disappearance, and as our eyes rested on his vacant 
chair, we insensibly fell into a train of meditation on the 
subject of his retirement from public life. We were 
wondering whether he had hung himself, or thrown him- 
self off a bridge — whether he really was dead or had 
only been arrested — when our conjectures were sud- 
denly set at rest by the entry of the man himself. He 
had undergone some strange metamorphosis, and walked 
up the centre of the room with an air which showed 
he was fully conscious of the improvement in his appear- 
ance. It was very odd. His clothes were a fine, deep, 
glossy black ; and yet they looked like the same suit ; 
nay, there were the veiy darns with w^hich old acquaint- 
ance had made us familiar. The hat, too — nobody 
could mistake the shape of that hat, with its high crown 
gradually increasing in circumference ‘ towards the top. 


SHABBY-GENTEEL PEOPLE. 


19 


Long service had imparted to it a reddish-brown tint ; 
but, now, it was as black as the coat. The truth flashed 
suddenly upon us — they had been revived.” It is a 
deceitful liquid that black and blue reviver ; we have 
watched its effects on many a shabby-genteel man. It 
betrays its victims into a temporary assumption of im- 
portance: possibly into the purchase of a new pair of 
gloves, or a cheap stock, or some other trifling article of 
dress. It elevates their spirits for a week, only to de- 
press them, if possible, below their original level. It was 
so in this case; the transient dignity of the unhappy 
man decreased, in exact proportion as the “ reviver ” 
wore off. The knees of the unmentionables, and the 
elbows of the coat, and the seams generally, soon began 
to get alarmingly white. The hat was once more depos- 
ited under the table, and its owner crept into his seat as 
quietly as ever. 

There was a week of incessant small rain and mist. 
At its expiration the “ reviver ” had entirely vanished, 
and the shabby-genteel man never afterwards attempted 
to effect any improvement in his outward appearance. 

It would be difficult to name any particular part of 
town as the principal resort of shabby-genteel men. 
We have met a great many persons of this description in 
the neighborhood of the inns of court. They may be 
met with, in Holborn, between eight and ten any morn- 
ing ; and whoever has the curiosity to enter the Insolvent 
Debtors’ Court will observe, both among spectators and 
practitioners, a great variety of them. We never went 
on ’Change, by any chance, without seeing some shabby- 
genteel men, and we have often wondered what eartidy 
business they can liave there. They will sit there, for 
liours, leaning on great, dropsieal, mildewed umbrellas, or 


20 


SKETCHES BY BOZ. 


eating Abemethy biscuitSi Nobody speaks to them, nor 
they to any one. On consideration, we remember to have 
occasionally seen two shabby-genteel men conversing to- 
gether on ’Change, but our experience assures us that 
this is an uncommon circumstance, occasioned by the 
offer of a pinch of snuff, or some such civility. 

It would be a task of equal difficulty, either to assign 
any particular spot for the residence of these beings, or 
to endeavor to enumerate their general occupations. 
We were never engaged in business with more than one 
shabby-genteel man ; and he was a drunken engraver, 
and lived in a damp back-parlor in a new row of houses 
at Camden Town, half street, half brick-field, somewhere 
near the canal. A shabby-genteel man may have no oc- 
cupation, or he may be a corn agent, or a coal agent, or a 
wine agent, or a collector of debts, or a broker’s assist- 
ant, or a broken-down attorney. He may be a clerk of 
the lowest description, or a contributor to the press of 
the same grade. Whether our readers have noticed 
these men, in their walks, as often as we have, we know 
not ; this we know — that the miserably poor man (no 
matter whether he owes his distresses to his own con- 
duct, or that of others) who feels his poverty and vainly 
strives to conceal it, is one of the most pitiable objects in 
human nature. Such objects, with few exceptions, are 
shabby-genteel people, 


MAKING A NIGHT OF IT. 


21 


CHAPTER XL 


MAKING A NIGHT OF IT. 


Damon and Pythias were undoubtedly very good 
fellows in their way : the former for his extreme readi- 


ness to put in special bail for a friend : and the latter for 


a certain trump-like punctuality in turning up just in the 
very nick of time, scarcely less remarkable. Many 
points in their character have, however, grown obsolete. 
Damons are rather hard to find, in these days of impris- 
onment for debt (except the sham ones, and they cost 
half-a-crown) ; and, as to the Pythiases, the few that 
have existed in these degenerate times, have had an 
unfortunate knack of making themselves scarce, at the 
very moment when their appearance would have been 
strictly classical. If the actions of these heroes, how- 
ever, can find no parallel in modern times, their friend- 
ship can. We have Damon and Pythias on the one 
hand. We have Potter and Smither'S' on the other; 
and, lest the two last-mentioned names should never 
have reached the ears of our un^lightehed readers, we 
can do no better than make th^ ad^pminted with the 
owmers thereof. 



Mr. Thomas Potter, then, was aT clerlifin the city, and 
Mr. Robert Smithers was a ditto in the same ; their in- 
comes were limited, but their friendship was unbounded. 
They lived in the same street, walked into town every 
morning at the same hour, dined at the same slap-bang 
every day, and revelled in each other’s company every 


SKETCHES BY BOZ, 


night. They were knit together by the closest ties of 
intimacy and friendship, or, as Mr. Thomas Potter touch- 
ingly observed, they “ were thick-and-thin pals, and noth- 
ing but it.” There was a spice of romance in Mr. 
Smithers’s disposition, a ray of poetry, a gleam of misery, 
a sort of consciousness of he didn’t exactly know what, 
coming across him he didn’t precisely know why — 
wdiich stood out in fine relief against the off-hand, 
dashing,' amateur-pickj)Ocket-sort-of-manner, which dis- 
tinguished Mr. Potter in an eminent degree. 

The peculiarity of their respective dispositions, ex- 
tended itself to their individual costume. Mr. Smitheis 
generally appeared in public in a surtout and shoes, with 
a narrow black neckerchief and a brown hat, very much 
turned up at the sides — peculiarities which Mr. Potter 
wholly eschewed, for it was his ambition to do something 
in the celebrated “kiddy” or stage-coach way, and he 
had even gone so far as to invest capital in the purchase 
of a rough blue coat with wooden buttons, made upon 
the fireman’s principle, in which, with the addition of a 
low-crowned, flowef-pot-saucef-shaped hat, he had created 
no inconsiderable s^satio^ at the Albion in Little Russell 
Street, and divers other places of public and fashionable 
resort. 

Mr. Potter and Mr. Smithers had mutually agreed 
that, on the receipt of their quarter’s salary, they would 
jointly and in^ompany “ spend the evening” — an evi- 
dent misnomer^=—^he "pending applying, as everybody 
knows, not to the evening itself but to all the money the 
individual may chance to be possessed of, on the occasion 
to which reference is made; and they had likewise 
agreed that, on the evening aforesaid, they would “ make 
a night of it ” — an expressive term, implying the bor- 


MAKING A NIGHT OF IT. 


23 


rowing of several hours from to-morrow morning, adding 
them to the night before, and manufacturing a compound 
night of the whole. 

The quarter-day arrived at last — we say at last, be- 
cause quarter-days' are as eccentric as comets : moving 
wonderfully quick when you have a good deal to pay, 
and marvellously slow when you have a little to receive. 
Mr. Thomas Potter and Mr. Robert Smithers met by 
appointment to begin the evening with a dinner ; and a 
nice, snug, comfortable dinner they had, consisting of a 
little procession of four chops and four kidneys, following 
each other, supported on either side by a pot of the real 
draught stout, and attended by divers cushions of bread, 
and wedges of cheese. 

When the cloth was removo^fl^y. Thomas Potter or- 
dered the waiter to bring in t^ g^es of his best Scotch 
whiskey, with warm water and sugar, and a couple of his 
‘‘ very mildest ” Havannahs, which the waiter did. Mr. 
Thomas Potter mixed his grog, and lighted his cigar ; 
Mr. Robert Smithers did the same ; and then, Mr. 
Thomas Potter jocularly proposed as the first toast, 
“ the abolition of all offices whatever ’’ (not sinecures, 
but counting-houses), which was immediately drunk by 
Mr. Robert Smithers with - enthusiastic applause. So 
they went on, talking politics, puffing cigars and sip- 
ping whiskey-and-water, until tlie “ goes ” — most ap- 
propriately so called — were both gone, which Mr 
Robert Smithers perceiving, immeSjiately ordered in two 
more goes of the best Scotch whiskey, and two more of 
the very mildest Havannahs ; and the goes kept coming 
in, and the mild Havannahs kept going out, until, what 
with the drinking, and lighting, and puffing, and the stale 
ashes on the table, and the tallow-grease on the cigars, 


24 


SKETCHES BY BOZ. 


Mr. Robert Smithers began to doubt the mildness of the 
Havannahs, and to feel Very much as if he had been sit- 
ting in a hackney-coach with his back to the horses. 

As to Mr. Thomas Potter, he would keep laughing 
out loud, and volunteering inarticulate declarations that 
he was “ all right ; ” in proof of which he feebly bespoke 
the evening paper after the next gentleman, but finding 
it a matter of some difficulty to discover any news in its 
columns, or to ascertain distinctly whether it had any 
columns at all, walked slowly out to look for the moon, 
and, after coming back quite pale with looking up at the 
sky so long, and attempting to express mirth at Mr. 
Robert Smithers having fallen asleep, by various gal- 
vanic chuckles, laid his head on his arm, and went to 
sleep also. When h^^irfW^e again, Mr. Robert Smithers 
awoke too, and they ^th ^ery gravely agreed that it was 
extremely unwise to eai so many pickled walnuts with 
the chops, as it was a notorious fact that they always 
made people queer and sleepy ; indeed, if it had not 
been for the whiskey and » cigars, there was no knowing 
what harm they mightn’t have done ’em. So they took 
some cofiee, and after paying the bill, — twelve and two- 
pence the dinner, and the odd tenpence for the waiter — 
thirteen shillings in all — started out on their expedition 
to manufacture a night. 

It was just half-past eight, so they thought they 
couldn’t do better than go at half-price to the slips at 
the City Theatre, which they did accordingly. Mr. 
Robert Smithers, who had become extremely poetical 
after the settlement of the bill, enlivening the walk by 
informing Mr. Thomas Potter in confidence that he felt 
an inward presentiment of approaching dissolution, and 
subsequently embellishing the theatre, by falling asleep,. 


MAKING A NIGHT OF IT. 


25 


his head and both arms gracefully drooping over 
'he front of the boxes. 

Such was the quiet demeanor of the unassuming 
K^mithers, and such were the happy effects of Scotch 
jvhiskey and Havannahs on that interesting person ! 
But Mr. Thomas Potter, whose great aim it was to be 
considered as a “ knowing card,” a “ fast-goer,” and so 
forth, conducted himself in a very different manner, and 
commenced going very fast indeed — rather too fast at 
last, for the patience of the audience to keep pace with 
him. On his first entry, he contented himself by ear- 
nestly calling upon the gentlemen in the gallery to “ flare 
up,” accompanying the demand with another request, 
expressive of his wish that they would instantaneously 
“ form a union,” both which requisitions were responded 
to, in the manner most in vogue on such occasions. 

Give that dog a bone ! ” cried one gentleman in his 
shirt-sleeves. 

“ Where have you been a having half a pint of inter- 
mediate beer ? ” cried a second. Tailor ! ” screamed 
a third. “ Barber’s clerk ! ” shouted a fourth. “ Throw 
him o — VER ! ” roared a fifth ; while numerous voices 
concurred in desiring Mr. Thomas Potter to “ go home 
to his mother ! ” All these taunts Mr. Thomas Potter re- 
ceived with supreme contempt, cocking the low-crowned 
hat a little more on one side, whenever any reference 
was made to his personal appearance, and, standing up 
with his arms a-kimbo, expressing defiance melodra- 
matically. 

The overture — to which these various sounds had 
been an ad libitum accompaniment — concluded, the 
second piece began, and Mr. Thomas Potter, emboldened 
by impunity, proceeded to behave in a most unprece- 


26 


SKETCHES BY BOZ. 


dented and outrageous manner. First, of all, he imitated 
the shake of the principal female singer ; then, groaned 
at the blue fire ; then, affected to be frightened into con- 
vulsions of terror at the appearance of the ghost ; and, 
lastly, not only made a running commentary, in an au- 
dible voice, upon the dialogue on the stage, but actually 
awoke Mr. Robert Smithers, who, hearing his compan- 
ion making a noise, and having a very indistinct notion 
where he was, or what was required of him, immediately, 
by way of imitating a good example, set up the most 
unearthly, unremitting, and appalling howling that ever 
audience heard. It was too much. “ Turn them out ! ’’ 
was the general cry. A noise, as of shuffling of feet, 
and men being knocked up with violence against wain- 
scoting, was heard : a hurried dialogue of “ Come out ? ” 
— ‘‘I won’t ! ” — “ You shall ! ” — “I shan’t ! ” — “ Give 
me your card, sir ! ” — “ You’re a scoundrel, sir ! ” and 
so forth succeeded. A round of applause betokened the 
approbation of the audience, and Mr. Robert Smithers 
and Mr. Thomas Potter found themselves shot with 
astonishing swiftness into the road, without having had 
the trouble of once putting foot to ground during the 
wdiole progress of their rapid descent. 

Mr. Robert Smithers, being constitutionally one of the 
slow-goers, and having had quite enough of fast-going, in 
the course of his recent expulsion, to last until the quar- 
ter-day then next ensuing at the very least, had no sooner 
emerged with his companion from the precincts of Milton 
Street, than he proceeded to indulge in circuitous refer- 
ences to the beauties of sleep, mingled with distant allu- 
sions to the propriety of returning to Islington, and testing 
the influence of their patent Bramahs over the street- 
door locks to which they respectively belonged. Mr. 


MAKING A NIGHT OF IT. 


27 


Thomas Potter, however, was valorous and peremptory. 
They had come out to make a night of it : and a night 
must be made. So Mr. Robert Smithers, who was three 
parts dull, and the other dismal, despairingly assented ; 
and they went into a wine-vaults, to get materials for 
assisting them in making a night ; where they found a 
good many young ladies, and various old gentlemen, and 
a plentiful sprinkling of hackney-coachmen and cab- 
drivers, all drinking and talking together ; and Mr. 
Thomas Potter and Mr. Robert* Smithers drank small 
glasses of brandy, and large glasses of soda, until they 
began to have a very confused idea, either of things in 
general, or of anything in particular ; and, when they 
had done treating themselves they began to treat every- 
body else ; and the rest of the entertainment was a con- 
fused mixture of heads and heels, black eyes and blue 
uniforms, mud and gas-lights, thick doors, and stone 
paving. 

Then, as standard novelists expressively inform us — 
“ all was a blank ! ” and in the morning the blank was 
filled up with the words “ Station-House,” and the 
station-house was filled up with Mr. Thomas Potter, Mr. 
Robert Smithers, and the major part of their wine-vault 
companions of the preceding night, with a comparatively 
small portion of clothing of any kind. And it was 
disclosed at the Police-office, to the indignation of the 
Bench, and the astonishment of the spectators, how one 
Robert Smithers, aided and abetted by one Thomas 
Potter, had knocked down and beaten, in divers streets, 
at different times, five men, four boys, and three women ; 
how the said Thomas Potter had feloniously obtained 
possession of five door-knockers, two bell-handles, and a 
bonnet ; how Robert Smithers, his friend, had sworn, at 


28 


SKETCHES BY BOZ. 


least forty pounds’ worth of oaths, at the rate of five 
shillings a-piece ; terrified whole streets full of Her 
Majesty’s subjects with awful shrieks and alarms of fire ; 
destroyed the uniforms of five policemen ; and committed 
\ arious other atrocities, too numerous to recapitulate. 
And the magistrate, after an appropriate reprimand, 
fined Mr. Thomas Potter and Mr. Robert Smithers five 
shillings each, for being, what the law vulgarly terms, 
drunk ; and thirty -four pounds for seventeen assaults 
at forty shillings a head, with liberty to speak to the 
prosecutors. 

The prosecutors were spoken to, and Messrs. Potter 
and Smithers lived on credit, for a quarter, as best they 
might ; and, although the prosecutors expressed their 
readiness to be assaulted twice a week, on the same 
terms, they have never since been detected in ‘‘ making 
a night of it.” 


CHAPTER XII. 

THE prisoners’ VAN. 

We were passing the corner of Bow Street, on our 
return from a lounging excursion the other afternoon, 
when a crowd assembled round the door of the Police- 
office attracted our attention. We turned up the street 
accordingly. There were thirty or forty people, standing 
on the pavement and half across the road ; and a few 
stragglers were patiently stationed on the opposite side 
of the way — all evidently waiting in expectation of 


THE PRISONERS’ VAN. 


29 


some arrival. We waited too, a few minutes, but noth* 
ing occurred ; so we turned round to an unshorn sallow 
looking cobbler, who was standing next us with his 
hands under the bib of his apron, and put the usual 
question of “ What’s the matter ? ” The cobbler eyed 
us from head to foot, with superlative contempt, and 
laconically replied “ Nuffin.” 

Now, we were perfectly aware that if two men stop in 
the street to look at any given object, or even to gaze in 
the air, two hundred men will be assembled in no time ; 
but, as we knew very well that no crowd of people could 
by possibility remain in a street for five minutes without 
getting up a little amusement among themselves, unless 
they had some absorbing object in view, the natural 
inquiry next in order was, “ What are all these people 
waiting here for ? ” — ‘‘ Her Majesty’s carriage,” replied 
the cobbler. This was still more extraordinary. We 
could not imagine what earthly business Her Majesty’s 
carriage could have at the Public Office, Bow Street. 
We were beginning to ruminate on the possible causes 
of such an uncommon appearance, when a general ex- 
clamation from all the boys in the crowd of “ Here’s the 
wan ! ” caiised us to raise our heads, and look up the 
street. 

The covered vehicle, in which prisoners are conveyed 
from the police-offices to the different prisons, was coming 
along at full speed. It then occurred to us, for the first 
time, that Her Majesty’s carriage was merely another 
name for the prisoner’s van, conferred upon it, not only 
by reason of the superior gentility of the term, but be- 
cause the aforesaid van is maintained at Her Majesty’s 
expense : having been originally started for the exclusive 
accommodation of ladies and gentlemen under the neces- 


30 


SKETCHES BY BOZ. 


sity of visiting the various houses of call known by the 
general denomination of Her Majesty’s Jails.” 

The van drew up at the office-door, and the people 
thronged round the steps, just leaving a little alley for 
the prisoners to pass through. Our friend the cobbler, 
and the other stragglers, crossed over, and we followed 
their example. The driver, and another man who had 
been seated by his side in front of the vehicle, dis- 
mounted, and were admitted into the office. The office- 
door was closed after them, and the crowd were on the 
tiptoe of expectation. 

After a few minutes’ delay, the door again opened, and 
the two first prisoners appeared. They were a couple 
of girls, of whom the elder could not be more than six- 
teen, and the younger of whom had certainly not attained 
her fourteenth year. That they were sisters, was evi- 
dent, from the resemblance which still subsisted between 
them, though tw^o additional years of depravity had fixed 
their brand upon the elder girl’s features, as legibly as if 
a redhot iron had seared them. They were both gaudily 
dressed, the younger one especially ; and, although there 
was a strong similarity between them in both respects, 
which was rendered the more obvious by their being 
handcuffed together, it is impossible to conceive a greater 
contrast than the demeanor of the two presented. The 
younger girl was weeping bitterly — not for display, or 
in the hope of producing effect, but for very shame ; her 
face was buried in her handkerchief ; and her whole 
manner was but too expressive of bitter and unavailing 
sorrow. 

“ How long are you for, Emily ? ” screamed a red-faced 
woman in the crowd. ‘‘ Six weeks and labor,” replied 
th('. elder girl with a flaunting laugh ; “ and that’s better 


THE PRISONERS’ VAN. 


31 


than the stone jug anyhow ; the milFs a deal better than 
the Sessions, and here’s Bella agoing too for the first 
time. Hold up your head, you chicken,” she continued, 
boisterously tearing the other girl’s handkerchief away ; 
“ Hold up your head, and show ’em your face, I a’n’t 
jealous, but I’m blessed if I a’n’t game ! ” — “ That’s 
right, old gal,” exclaimed a man in a paper cap, who, 
in Qommon with the greater part of the crowd, had 
been inexpressibly delighted with this little incident. — 

Right ! ” replied the girl ! “ ah, to be sure ; what’s the 
odds, eh ? ” — “ Come ! In with you,” interrupted the 
driver. — “ Don’t you be in a hurry, coachman,” replied 
the girl, “ and recollect I want to be set down in Cold 
Bath Fields — large house with a high garden-wall in 
front ; you can’t mistake it. Hallo. Bella, where are 
you going to — you’ll pull my precious arm off ? ” This 
was addressed to the younger girl, who, in her anxiety 
to hide herself in the caravan, had ascended the steps 
first, and forgotten the strain upon the handcuff ; “ Come 
down, and let’s show you the way.” And after jerking 
the miserable girl down with a force which made her 
stagger on the pavement, she got into the vehicle, and 
was followed by her wretched companion. 

These two girls had been thrown upon London streets, 
their vices and debauchery, by a sordid and rapacious 
mother. What the younger girl was, then, the elder had 
been once ; and what the elder then was, the younger 
must soon become. A melancholy prospect, but how 
surely to be ’ realized ; a tragic drama, but how often 
acted ! Turn to the prisons and police offices of London 
— nay, look into the very streets themselves. These 
things pass before our eyes, day after day, and hour after 
hour — they have become such matters of course, that 


32 


SKETCHES BY BOZ. 


tliej are utterly disregarded. The progress of these 
girls in crime will be as rapid as the flight of a pes- 
tilence, resembling it too in its baneful influence and 
wide-spread infection. Step by step, how many wretched 
females, within the sphere of every man’s observation, 
have become involved in a career of vice, frightful to 
contemplate ; hopeless at its commencement, loathsome 
and repulsive in its course ; friendless, forlorn, and un- 
pitied, at its miserable conclusion ! 

There were other prisoners — boys of ten, as hardened 
in vice as men of fifty — a houseless vagrant, going joy- 
fully to prison as a place of food and shelter, handcuffed 
to a man whose prospects were ruined, character lost, 
and family rendered destitute, by his first offence. Our 
curiosity, however, was satisfied. The first group had 
left an impression on our mind we would gladly have 
avoided, and would willingly have effaced. 

The crowd dispersed ; the vehicle rolled away with its 
load of guilt and misfortune ; and we saw no more of the 
Prisoners’ Van. 


THE BOAEDING-HOUSE. 


23 


TALES. 


CHAPTER I. 

THE BOARDING-HOUSE. CHAPTER I. 

Mrs. Tibbs was, beyond all dispute,, the most tidy, 
fidgety, thrifty, little personage that ever inhaled the 
smoke of London : and the house of Mrs. Tibbs was, 
decidedly, the neatest in all Great Coram Street. The 
area and the area steps, and the street-door, and the 
street-door steps, and the brass handle, and the door- 
plate, and the knocker, and the fan-light, were all as 
clean and bright as indefatigable whitewashing, and 
hearth-stoning, and scrubbing and rubbing could make 
them. The wonder was, that the brass door-plate, with 
the interesting inscription “ Mrs. Tibbs,’’ had never 
caught fire from constant friction, so perseveringly was 
» it polished. There were meat-safe -looking blinds in the 
parlor-windows, blue and gold curtains in the drawing- 
room, and spring-roller blinds, as Mrs. Tibbs was wont 
in the pride of her heart to boast, “ all the way up.” 
The bell-lamp in the passage looked as clear as a soap- 
bubble ; you could see yourself in all the tables, and 
French-polish yourself on any one of the chairs. The 
banisters were beeswaxed ; and the very stair- wires 
made your eyes wink, they were so glittering. 

Mrs. Tibbs was somewhat short of stature, and Mr. 
3 


VOL. II. 


84 


SKETCHES BY BOZ. 


Tibbs was by no means a large man. He bad moreover, 
very short legs, but, by way of indemnification, his face 
was peculiarly long. He was to his wife what the 0 is in 
90 — he was of some importance with her — he was noth- 
ing without her. Mrs. Tibbs was ahvays talking. Mr. 
Tibbs rarely spoke ; but, if it were at any time possible 
to put in a word, when he should have said nothing at 
all, he had that talent. Mrs. Tibbs detested long stories, 
and Mr. Tibbs had one, the conclusion of which had 
never been heard by his most intimate friends. It 
always began, “ I recollect when I was in the volun- 
teer corps, in eighteen hundred and six,” — but, as he 
spoke very slowly and softly, and his better half very 
quickly and loudly, he rarely got beyond the introduc- 
tory sentence. He was a melancholy specimen of the 
story-teller. He was the wandering Jew of Joe Mil- 
lerism. 

Mr. Tibbs, enjoyed a small independence from the 
pension-list — about 43/. 15^. lOt/. a year. His father, 
mother, and five interesting scions from the same stock 
drew a like sum from the revenue of a grateful country, 
though for what particular service was never known. 
But, as this said independence was not quite sufficient 
to furnish two people with all the luxuries of this life, it« 
had occurred to the busy little spouse of Tibbs, that the 
best thing she could do with a legacy of 700/., would be 
to take and furnish a tolerable house — somewhere in 
that partially explored tract of country which lies be- 
tween the British Museum, and a remote village called 
Somers’ Town — for the reception of boarders. Great 
Coram Street was the spot pitched upon. The house 
had been furnished accordingly ; two female servants and 
' a boy engaged ; and an advertisement inserted in the 


THE BOARDING-HOUSE. 


35 


morning papers, informing the public tliat ‘‘ Six individ- 
uals would meet with all the comforts of a cheerful 
musical home in a select private family, residing within 
ten minutes’ w^alk of” — everywhere. Answers out of 
number were received, with all sorts of initials ; all the 
letters of the alphabet seemed to be seized with a sud- 
den wish to go out boarding and lodging ; voluminous 
was the correspondence between Mrs. Tibbs and the ap- 
plicants ; and most profound was the secrecy observed. 
“ E.” didn’t like this, “ I.” couldn’t think of putting up 
with that ; ‘‘ I. 0. U.” didn’t think the terms would suit 
him; and “ G. E-.” had never slept in a French bed. 
The result, however, was, that three gentlemen became 
inmates of Mrs. Tibbs’s house, on terms which were 
‘‘agreeable to all parties.” In went the advertisement 
again, and a lady with her two daughters, proposed to 
increase — not their families, but Mrs. Tibbs’s. 

“ Charming woman, that Mrs. Maplesone ! ” said Mrs. 
Tibbs, as she and her spouse were sitting by the fire 
after breakfast ; the gentlemen having gone out on their 
several avocations. “ Charming woman, indeed ! ” re- 
peated little Mrs. Tibbs, more by way of soliloquy than 
anything else, for she never thought of consulting her 
husband. . “And the two daughters are delightful. We 
must have some fish to-day ; they’ll join us at dinner for 
the first time.” 

Mr. Tibbs placed the poker at right angles with the 
fire shovel, and essayed to speak, but recollected he had 
nothing to say. 

“ The young ladies,” continued Mrs. T., “ have kindly 
volunteered to bring their own jfiano.” 

Tibbs thought of the volunteer story, but did not ven- 
ture it. A bright thought struck him — 


SKETCHES BY BOZ. 


SG 

“ If s very likely — ” said he. 

“ Pray don’t lean your head against the paper,” inter- 
rupted Mrs. Tibbs ; ‘‘ and don’t put your feet on the steel 
fender; that’s worse.” 

Tibbs took his head from the paper, and his feet from 
the fender, and proceeded. “ It’s very likely one of the 
young ladies may set her cap at young Mr. Simpson, and 
you know a marriage — ’’ 

“ A what ! ” shrieked Mrs. Tibbs. Tibbs modestly re- 
peated his former suggestion. 

I beg you won’t mention such a thing,” said Mrs. T. 
“ A marriage indeed ! — to rob me of my boarders — 
no, not for the world.” 

Tibbs thought in his own mind that the event was by 
no means unlikely ; but, as he never argued with his 
wife, he put a stop to the dialogue, by observing it was 
“ time to go to business.” He always went out at ten 
o'clock in the morning, and returned at five in the after- 
noon, with an exceedingly dirty face, and smelling 
mouldy. Nobody knew what he was, or where he went ; 
but Mrs. Tibbs used to say with an air of great impor- 
tance that he was engaged in the City. 

The Miss Maplesones and their accomplished parent 
arrived in the course of the afternoon in a hackney-coach, 
and accompanied by a most astonishing number of pack- 
ages. Trunks, bonnet-boxes, mufiP-boxes, and parasols, 
guitar-cases, and parcels of all imaginable shapes, done 
up in brown paper, and fastened with pins, filled the pas- 
sage. Then, there was such a running up and down 
with the luggage, such scampering for warm water for 
the ladies to wash in, and such a bustle, and confusion, 
and heating of servants and curling-irons, as had never 
been known in Great Coram Street before. Little Mrs. 


THE BOARDING-HOUSE. 


37 


Tibbs was quite in her element, bustling about, talking 
incessantly, and distributing towels and soap like a head- 
nurse in a hospital. The house was not restored to its 
usual state of quiet repose, until the ladies were safely 
shut up in their respective bedrooms, engaged in the im- 
portant occupation of dressing for dinner. 

“ Are these gals ’andsome ? ’’ inquired Mr. Simpson of 
Mr. Septimus Hicks, another of the boarders, as they were 
amusing themselves in the drawing-room, before dinner, 
by lolling on sofas and contemplating their pumps. 

Don’t know,” replied Mr. Septimus Hicks, who was 
a tallish, white-faced young man, with spectacles, and a 
black ribbon round his neck instead of a neckerchief — 
a most interesting person : a poetical walker - of the hos- 
pitals, and a “ very talented young man.” He was fond 
of lugging ” into conversation, all sorts of quotations 
from Don Juan, without fettering himself by the pro- 
priety of their application ; in which particular he was 
remarkably independent. The other, Mr. Simpson, was 
one of those young men, who are in society what walk- 
ing gentlemen are on the stage, only infinitely worse 
skilled in his vocation than the most indifferent artist. 
He was as empty-headed as the great bell of St. Paul’s ; 
always dressed according to the caricatures published in 
the monthly fashions ; and spelt Character with a K. 

“ I saw a devilish number of parcels in the passage 
when I came home,” simpered Mr. Simpson. 

“ Materials for the toilet, no doubt,” returned the Don 
Juan reader. 


“ ‘ Much linen, lace, and several pair 

Of stockings, slippers, brushes, combs, complete ; 
With other articles of ladies’ fair, 

To keep them beautiful, or leave them neat.’ ” 


88 


SKETCHES BY BOZ. 


^ Is that from Milton ?” inquired Mr. Simpson. 

“ No — from Byron,” returned Mr. Hicks, with a look 
of contempt. He was quite sure of his author, because 
he had never read any other. “ Hush ! Here come the 
gals,” and they both commenced talking in a very loud key. 

“ Mrs. Maplesone and the Miss Moplesones, Mr. 
Hicks. Mr. Hicks — Mrs. Maplesone and the Miss 
.Maplesones,” said Mrs. Tibbs, with a very red face, for 
slie had been superintending the cooking operations 
below stairs, and looked like a wax doll on a sunny day. 
“ Mr. Simpson, I beg your pardon — Mr. Simpson — 
Mrs. Maplesone and the Miss Maplesones” — and vice 
versa. The gentlemen immediately began to slide about 
with much politeness, and to look as if they wished their 
arms had been legs, so little did they know what to do 
with them. The ladies smiled, courtesied, and glided into 
chairs, and dived for dropped pocket-handkerchiefs ; the 
gentlemen leant against two of the curtain-pegs ; Mrs. 
Tibbs went through an admirable bit of serious panto- 
mime with a servant who had come up to ask some 
question about the fish-sauce ; and then the two young 
ladies looked at each other ; and everybody else appeared 
to discover something very attractive in the pattern of 
the fender. 

Julia, my love,” said Mrs. Maplesone to her young- 
est daughter, in a tone loud enough for the remainder of 
the company to hear, — “ Julia.” 

« Yes, Ma.” 

Don’t stoop.” — This was said for the purpose of 
directing general attention to Miss Julia’s figure, Avhich 
was undeniable. Everybody looked at her, accordingly, 
»md there was another pause. 

' ‘‘We had the most uncivil hackney-coachman to-day, 


THE BOARDING-HOUSE. 


39 


you can imagine/’ said Mrs. Maplesone to Mrs. Tibbs, in 
a confidential tone. 

Dear me ! ” replied the hostess, with an air of great 
commiseration. She couldn’t say more, for the servant 
again appeared at the door, and commenced telegraphing 
most earnestly to her “ Missis.” 

“ I think hackney-coachmen generally are uncivil,” 
said Mr. Hicks in his most insinuating tone. 

Positively I think they are,” replied Mrs. Maplesone, 
as if the idea had never struck her before. 

“ And cabmen, too,” said Mr. Simpson. This remark 
was a failure, for no ohe intimated, by word or sign, the 
slightest knowledge of the manners and customs of cab- 

o o 

men. 

“ Robinson, what do you want ? ” said Mrs. Tibbs to 
the servant, who, by way of making her presence known 
to her mistress, had been giving sundry hems and sniffs 
outside the door, during the preceding five minutes. 

“ Please, ma’am, master wants his clean things,” replied 
the servant, taken off her guard. The two young men 
turned their faces to the window, and “went off” like a 
couple of bottles of ginger beer; the ladies put their 
handkerchiefs to their mouths ; and little Mrs. Tibbs 
bustled out of the room to give Tibbs his clean linen, — 
and the servant warning. 

]Mr. Calton, the remaining boarder, shortly afterwards 
made his appearance, and proved a surprising promotei 
of the conversation. Mr. Calton was a superannuated beau 
— an old boy. He used to say of himself that although 
his features were not regularly handsome, they were 
striking. They certainly were. It was impossible to 
•ook at his face without being reminded of a chubby 
street-door knocker, half-lion half-monkey ; and the com* 


40 


SKETCHES BY BOZ. 


parison might be extended to his whole character and 
conversation. He had stood still, while everything else 
had been moving. He never originated a conversation, 
or started an idea ; but if any commonplace topic were 
broached, or, to pursue the comparison, if anybody lifted 
him up, he would hammer away with surprising rapidity. 
He had the tic-doloreux occasionally, and then he might 
be said to be muffled, because he did not make quite as 
much noise as at other times, when he would go on pros- 
ing, rat-tat-tat the same thing over and over again. He 
had never been married ; but he was still on the look-out 
for a wife with money. He ha'd a life-interest worth 
about 300Z. a year — he was exceedingly vain, and inor- 
dinately selfish. He had acquired the reputation of being 
the very pink of politeness, and he walked round the 
park,* and up Regent Street, every day. 

This respectable personage had made up his mind to 
render himself exceedingly agreeable to Mrs. Maplesone 
— indeed, the desire of being as amiable as possible ex- 
tended itself to the whole party ; Mrs. Tibbs having 
considered it an admirable little bit of management to 
represent to the gentlemen that she had some reason to 
believe the ladies were fortunes, and to hint to the ladies, 
that all the gentlemen were ‘‘ eligible.” A little flirta- 
tion, she thought, might keep her house full, without 
leading to any other result. 

Mrs. Maplesone was an enterprising widow of about 
fifty : shrewd, scheming, and good-looking. She was 
amiably anxious on behalf of her daughters ; in proof 
whereof she used to remark, that she would have no 
objection to marry again, if it would benefit her dear 
girls — she could have no other motive. The “ dear 
girls ” thenaselves v/ere not at all insensible to the merits 


THE BOARDING-HOUSE. 


41 


of “ a good establishment.’’ One of them was twenty- 
five ; the other, three years younger. They had been at 
different watering-places, for four seasons ; they had 
gambled at libraries, read books in balconies, sold at 
fancy fairs, danced at assemblies, talked sentiment — in 
short, they had done all that industrious girls could do — 
but, as yet, to no purpose. 

“ What a magnificent dresser Mr. Simpson is ! ” whis- 
pered Matilda Maplesone to her sister Julia. 

“ Splendid ! ” returned the youngest. The magnificent 
individual alluded to wore a maroon-colored dress-coat, 
with a velvet collar and cuffs of the same tint — very 
like that which usually invests the form of the distin- 
guished unknown who condescends to play the “ swell ” 
in the pantomime at ‘‘ Richardson’s Show.” 

“ What whiskers ! ” said Miss Julia. 

“ Charming ! ” responded her sister ; “ and what hair ! ” 
His hair was like a wig, and distinguished by that insin- 
uating wave which graces the shining locks of those 
chef s-d^ oeuvre of art surmounting the waxen images in 
Bartellot’s window, in Regent Street ; his whiskers meet- 
ing beneath his chin, seemed strings wdierewith to tie it 
on, ere science had rendered them unnecessary by her 
patent invisible springs. 

‘‘ Dinner’s on the table, ma’am, if you please,” said the 
boy, who now appeared for the first time, in a revived 
black coat of his master’s. 

Oh ! Mr. Calton, will you lead Mrs. Maplesone ? — 
Thank you.” Mr. Simpson offered his arm to Miss 
Julia ; Mr. Septimus Hicks escorted the lovely Matilda ; 
and the procession proceeded to the dining-room. Mr. 
Tibbs was introduced, and Mr. Tibbs bobbed up and 
down to the three ladies like a figure in a Dutch clock, 


42 


SKETCHES BY BOZ. 


with a powerful spring in the middle of his body, and 
then dived rapidly into his seat at the bottom of the 
table, delighted to screen himself behind a soup-tureen, 
which he could just see over, and that was all. The 
boarders were seated, a lady and gentleman alternately, 
like the layers of bread and meat in a plate of sand- 
wiches ; and then Mrs. Tibbs directed James to take off 
the covers. Salmon, lobster-sauce, giblet-soup, and the 
usual accompaniments were c?^5covered : potatoes like 
petrifactions, and bits of toasted bread, the shape and 
size of blank dice. 

Soup for Mrs. Maplesone, my dear,” said the bustling 
Mrs. Tibbs. She always called her husband “ my dear ” 
before company. Tibbs, who had been eating his bread, 
and calculating how long it would be before he should 
get any fish, helped the soup in a hurry, made a small 
island on the tablecloth, and put his glass upon it, to hide 
it from his wife. 

“ Miss Julia, shall I assist you to some fish ? ” 

“ If you please — very little — oh ! plenty, thank 
you ” (a bit about the size of a walnut put upon the 
plate). 

“ Julia is a very little eater,” said Mrs. Maplesone to 
Mr. Calton. 

The knocker gave a single rap. He was busy eating 
the fish with his eyes : so he only ejaculated, “ Ah ! ” 

“ My dear,” said Mrs. Tibbs to her spouse after every 
one else had been helped, “ What do you take ? ” The 
inquiry was accompanied with a look intimating that he 
mustn’t say fish, because there was not much left. Tibbs 
thought the frown referred to the island on the table- 
cloth ; he therefore coolly replied, “ Why — I’ll take a 
little — fish, I think.” 


THE BOARDING-HOUSE. 


43 


Did you say fish, my dear ? ” (another frown.) 

“ Yes, dear,” replied the villain, with an expression of 
acute hunger depicted in his countenance. The tears 
almost started to Mrs. Tibbs’s eyes as she helped her 
“ wretch of a husband,” as she inwardly called him, to 
the last eatable bit of salmon on the dish. 

“ James, take this to your master, and take away your 
master’s knife.” This was deliberate revenge, as Tibbs 
never could eat fish without one. He was, however, con- 
strained to chase small particles of salmon round and 
round his plate with a piece of bread and a fork, the 
number of successful attempts being about one in seven- 
teen.- 

Take away, James,” said Mrs. Tibbs, as Tibbs swal- 
lowed the fourth mouthful — and away went the plates 
like lightning. 

“ I’ll take a bit of bread, James,” said the poor “ master 
of the house,” more hungry than ever. 

“ Never mind your master now, James,” said Mrs. 
Tibbs, “ see about the meat.” This was conveyed in the 
tone in which ladies usually give admonitions to servants 
in company, that is to say, a low one ; but which, like a 
stage whisper, from its peculiar emphasis, is most dis- 
tinctly heard by everybody present. 

A pause ensued, before the table was replenished — a 
sort of parenthesis in which Mr. Simpson, Mr. Calton, 
and Mr. Hicks, produced respectfully a bottle of sauterne, 
bucellas, and sherry, and took wine with everybody — 
except Tibbs. Nq one ever thought of him. 

Between the fish and an intimated sirloin, there was a 
prolonged interval. 

Here was an opportunity for Mr. Hicks. He could 
not resist the singularly appropriate quotation — 


14 


SKETCHES BY BOZ. 


“ But beef is rare within these oxless isles; 

Goats’ flesh there is, no doubt, and kid, and mutton. 

And, when a holiday upon them smiles, 

A joint upon their barbarous spits they put on.” 

Very ungentlemanly behavior,” thought little Mrs. 
Tibbs, “ to talk in that v^^ay.” 

“ Ah,” said Mr. Calton, filling his glass. “ Tom Moore 
is my poet.” 

‘‘ And mine,” said Mrs. Maplesone. 

“And mine,” said Miss Julia. 

“ And mine,” added Mr. Simpson. 

“ Look at his compositions,” resumed the knocker. 

“ To be sure,” said Simpson, v^ith confidence. , • 

“ Look at Don Juan,” replied Mr. Septimus Hicks. 

“ Julia’s letter,” suggested Miss Matilda. 

“ Can anything be grander than the Fire Worship- 
pers ? ” inquired Miss Julia. 

“ To be sure,” said Simpson. 

“ Or Paradise and the Peri,” said the old beau. 

“ Yes ; or Paradise and the Peer,” repeated Simpson, 
who thought he was getting through it capitally. 

“ It’s all very well,” replied Mr. Septimus Hicks, "^ho, 
as we have before hinted, never had read anything but 
Don Juan. “ Where will you find anything finer than 
the description of the siege, at the commencement of the 
seventh canto ? ” 

“ Talking of a siege,” said Tibbs, with a mouthful of 
bread — “ when I was in the volunteer corps, in eighteen 
hundred and six, our commanding ofiicer was Sir Charles 
Rampart ; and one day, when we were exercising on the 
ground on which the London University now stands, 
he says, says he, Tibbs (calling me from the ranks) 
Tibbs — ” 


THE BOARDING-HOUSE. 


45 


“ Tell your master, James,” interrupted Mrs. Tibbs, in 
an awfully distinct tone, tell your master if he wonH 
carve those fowls, to send them to me.” The discomfited 
volunteer instantly set to work, and carved the fowls 
almost as expeditiously as his wife operated on the haunch 
of mutton. Whether he ever finished the story is not 
known ; but, if he did, nobody heard it. 

As the ice was now broken, and the new inmates more 
at home, every member of the company felt more at 
ease. Tibbs himself most certainly did, because he went 
to sleep immediately after dinner. Mr. Hicks and the 
ladies discoursed most eloquently about poetry, and the 
theatres, and Lord Chesterfield’s Letters ; and Mr. Gal- 
lon followed up what everybody said, with continuous 
double knocks. Mrs. Tibbs highly approved of every 
observation that fell from Mrs. Maplesone ; and as Mr. 
Simpson sat with a smile upon his face and said “ Yes,” 
or Certainly,” at intervals of about four minutes each, 
he received full credit for understanding what was going 
forward. The gentlemen rejoined the ladies in the 
drawing-room very shortly after they had left the dining- 
parlor. Mrs. Maplesone and Mr. Calton played cribbage, 
and the “ young people ” amused themselves with music 
and conversation. The Miss Maplesones sang the most 
fascinating duets, and accompanied themselves on guitars, 
ornamented with bits of ethereal blue ribbon. Mr. Sirnp- 
son put on a pink waistcoat, and said he was in raptures ; 
and Mr. Hicks felt in the seventh heaven of poetry, or 
the seventh canto of Don Juan — it was the same thing 
to him. Mrs. Tibbs was quite charmed with the new 
comers ; and Mr. Tibbs spent the evening in his usual 
way — he went to sleep, and woke up, and went to sleep 
again, and woke at supper-time. 


46 


SKETCHES BY BOZ. 


We are not about to adopt the license of novel-writers^ 
and to let “ years roll on ; ” but we will take the liberty 
of requesting the reader to suppose that six months have 
elapsed, since the dinner we have described, and that 
Mrs. Tibbs’s boarders have, during that period, sang, 
and danced, and gone to theatres and exhibitions, to- 
gether, as ladies and gentlemen, wherever they board, 
often do. And we will beg them, the period we have 
mentioned having elapsed, to imagine farther, that Mr. 
Septimus Hicks received, in his own bedroom (a front 
attic), at an early hour one morning, a note from Mr. 
Calton, requesting the favor of seeing him, as soon as 
convenient to himself, in his (Calton’s) dressing-room 
on the second floor back. 

“ Tell Mr. Calton I’ll come down directly,” said Mr. 
Septimus to the boy. Stop — is Mr. Calton unwell ? ” 
inquired this excited walker of hospitals, as he put on a 
bed-furniture-looking dressing-gown. 

“ Not as I knows on, sir,” replied the boy. “ Please, 
sir, he looked rather rum, as it might be.” 

“ Ah, that’s no proof of his being ill,” returned Hicks, 
unconsciously. “ Very well : I’ll be down directly.” 
Down-stairs ran the boy with the message, and down 
went the excited Hicks himself, almost as soon as the 
message was delivered. “ Tap, tap.” “ Come in.” — 
Door opens,. and discovers Mr. Calton sitting in an easy- 
chair. ‘ Mutual shakes of the hand exchanged, and Mr. 
Septimus Hicks motioned to a seat. A short pause. 
Mr. Hicks coughed, and Mr. Calton took a pinch of snuff. 
It was one of those interviews where neither party knows 
what to say. Mr. Septimus Hicks broke silence. 

“ I received a note — ” he said, very tremulously in 
a voice like a Punch with a cold. 


THE BOARDING-HOUSE. 


47 


‘‘ Y(3s,” returned the other, you did.” 

“ Exactly.” 

“ Yes.” 

Now, although this dialogue must have been satis- 
factory, both gentlemen felt there was something more 
important to be said ; therefore they did as most men in 
such a situation would have done — they looked at the 
table with a determined aspect. The conversation had 
been opened, however, and Mr. Calton had made up his 
mind to continue it, with a regular double knock. He 
always spoke very pompously. 

“ Hicks,” said he, “ I have sent for you, in consequence 
of certain arrangements winch are pending in this house, 
connected with a marriage.” 

“ With a marriage ! ” gasped Hicks, compared wdth 
whose expression of countenance, Hamlet’s, when he 
sees his father’s ghost, is pleasing and composed. 

“ With a marriage,” returned the knocker. I have 
sent for you to prove the great confidence 1 can repose 
in you.” 

“ And will you betray me ? ” eagerly inquired Hicks, 
who in his alarm had even forgotten to quote. 

“ 1 betray you ! Won’t you betray me ? ” 

“ Never : no one shall know, to my dying day, that 
you had a hand in the business,” responded the agitated 
Hicks, with an inflamed countenance, and his hair stand- 
ing on end as if he w^ere on the stool of an electrifying 
machine in full operation. 

People must know that, some time or other — within 
a year, I imagine,” said Mr. Calton, with an air of great 
self-complacency, “ we may have a family.” 

“ We / — That w^on’t affect you, surely ? ” 

The devil it wmn’t ! ” 


48 


SKETCHES BY BOZ. 


No ! how can it ? ” said the bewildered Hicks. Cal- 
ton was too much in wrapped in the contemplation of his 
happiness to see the equivoque between Hicks and him- 
self ; and threw himself back in his chair. “ Oh, Ma- 
tilda ! ” sighed the antique beau, in a lackadaisical 
voice, and applying his right hand a little to the left 
of the fourth button of his waistcoat, counting from the 
bottom. “ Oh, Matilda ! ” 

“ What Matilda ? ” inquired Hicks, starting up. 

“ Matilda Maplesone,” responded the other, doing the 
same. 

“ I marry her to-morrow morning,” said Hicks. 

“ It’s false,” rejoined his companion : “ I marry 

her ! ” 

“ You marry her ! ” 

“ I marry her ! ” 

“ You marry Matilda Maplesone ? ” 

“ Matilda Maplesone.” 

^^Miss Maplesone marry you ? ” 

“ Miss Maplesone ! No : Mrs. Maplesone.” 

“ Good Heaven ! ” said Hicks, falling into his chair : 
“You marry the mother, and I the daughter ! ” 

“ Most extraordinary circumstance ! ” replied Mr. Cal- 
ton, “ and rather inconvenient too ; for the fact is, that 
owing to Matilda’s wishing to keep her intention secret 
from her daughters until the ceremony had taken place, 
she doesn’t like applying to any of her friends to give 
her away. I entertain an objection to making the affair 
known to my acquaintance just now ; and the conse- 
quence is, that I sent to you, to know whether you’d 
oblige me by acting as father.” 

“ I should have been most happy, I assure you,” said 
Hicks, in a tone of condolence ; “ but, you see, I shall be 


THE BOARDING-HOUSE. 


49 


acting as bridegroom. One character is frequently a con- 
sequence of the other ; but it is not usual to act in both at 
the same time. There’s Simpson — I have no doubt 
he’ll do it for you.” 

“ I don’t like to ask him,” replied Calton ; he’s such 
a donkey.” 

Mr. Septimus Hicks looked up at the ceiling, and down 
at the floor ; at last an idea struck him. Let the man 
of the house, Tibbs, be the father,” he suggested ; and 
then he quoted, as peculiarly applicable to Tibbs and the 
pair — 

“ Oh Powers of Heaven! what dark eyes meets she there? 

’Tis — ’tis her father’s — fixed upon the pair.” 

“ The idea has struck me already,” said Mr. Calton : 

‘‘ but, you see, Matilda, for what reason I know not, is 
very anxious that Mrs. Tibbs should know nothing about 
it, till it’s all over. It’s a natural delicacy, after all, you 
know.” 

He’s the best-natured little man in existence, if you 
manage him properly,” said Mr. Septimus Hicks. “ Tell 
him not to mention it to his wife, and assure him she 
won’t mind it, and he’ll do it directly. IMy marriage 
is to be a secret one, on account of the mother and my 
father : therefore he must be enjoined to secrecy.” 

A small double knock, like a presumptuous single one, 
was that instant heard at the street-door. It was Tibbs ; ^ 
it could be no one else; for no one else occupied five 
minutes in rubbing his shoes. He had been out to pay 
the baker’s bill. 

‘‘ Mr. Tibbs,” called Mr. Calton in a very bland tone, 
looking over the banisters. 

“ Sir ! ” replied he of the dirty face. 

VOL. II. 4 


50 


SKETCHES BY BOZ. 


“ Will you have the kindness to step up-stairs for a 
moment ? ” 

“ Certainly, sir,” said Tibbs, delighted to be taken 
notice of. The bedroom-door was carefully closed, and 
Tibbs, having put his hat on the floor (as most timid 
men do), and been accommodated with a seat, looked as 
astounded as if he were suddenly summoned before the 
familiars of the Inquisition. 

“A rather unpleasant occurrence, Mr. Tibbs,” said 
Gallon, in a very portentous manner, “ obliges me to 
consult you, and to beg you will not communicate what 
I am about to say, to your wife.” 

Tibbs acquiesced, wondering in his own mind what the 
deuce the other could have done, and imagining that at- 
least he must have broken the best decanters. 

Mr. Calton resumed; ‘‘I am placed, Mr. Tibbs, in 
rather an unpleasant situation.” 

Tibbs looked at Mr. Septimus Hicks, as if he thought 
Mr. H.’s being in the immediate vicinity of his fellow- 
boarder might constitute the unpleasantness of his situa- 
tion ; but as he did not exactly know what to say, he 
merely ejaculated the monosyllable “ Lor ! ” 

‘‘ Now,” continued the knocker, “ let me beg you will 
exhibit no manifestations of surprise, which may be over- 
heard by the domestics, when I tell you — command 
your feelings of astonishment — that two inmates of this 
house intend to be married to-morrow morning.” And 
he drew back his chair, several feet, to perceive the effect 
of the unlooked-for announcement. 

If Tibbs had rushed from the room, staggered down- 
stairs, and fainted in the passage — if he had instan- 
taneously jumped out of the window into the mews 
behind the house, in an agony of surprise — his ^behavior 


THE BOARDING-HOUSE. 


51 


would have been much less inexplicable to Mr. Calton 
than it was, when he put his hands into his inexpressible- 
pockets, and said with a half-chuckle, “ Just so.” 

You are not surprised, Mr. Tibbs ? ” inquired Mr. 
Calton. 

“ Bless you, no, sir,” returned Tibbs ; “ after all it’s 
very natural. When two young people get together, 
you know — ” 

“ Certainly, certainly,” said Calton, with an indescrib- 
able air of self-satisfaction. 

“ You don’t think it’s at all an out-of-the-way affair 
then ? ” asked Mr. Septimus Hicks, who had watched the 
countenance of Tibbs in mute astonishment. 

“ No, sir,” replied Tibbs ; “ I was just the same at his • 
age.” He actually smiled when he said this. 

‘‘ How devilish well I must carry my years ! ” thought 
the delighted old beau, knowing he was at least ten years 
older than Tibbs at that moment. 

“ Well, then, to come to the point at once,” he contin- 
ued, “ I have to ask you whether you will object to act 
as father on the occasion ? ” 

“ Certainly not,” replied Tibbs ; still wdthout evincing 
an atom of surprise. 

“ You will not ? ” 

“ Decidedly noV’ reiterated Tibbs, still as calm as a 
pot of porter with the head off. 

Mr. Calton seized the hand of the petticoat-governed 
little man, and vowed eternal friendship from that hour. 
Hicks, who was all admiration and surprise, did the 
same. 

“Now confess,” asked Mr. Calton of Tibbs, as he 
picked up his hat, “ were you not a little surprised ? ” 

“ I b’lieve you ! ” replied that illustrious person, holding 


52 


SKETCHES BY BOZ. 


up one hand ; “ I b’lieve you ! When I first heard 
of it.” 

So sudden,” said Septimus Hicks. 

So strange to ask me, you know,” said Tibbs. 

“ So odd altogether ! ” said the superannuated love- 
maker; and then all three laughed. 

“ I say,” said Tibbs, shutting the door which he had 
previously opened, and giving full vent to a hitherto 
corked-up giggle, “ what bothers me is, what will his 
father say ? ” 

Mr. Septimus Hicks looked at Mr. Calton. 

“ Yes ; but the best of it is,” said the latter, giggling 
in his turn, “ I haven’t got a father — he ! he ! he ! ” 

“ You haven’t got a father. No ; but he has,” said 
Tibbs. 

“ Who has ? ” inquired Septimus Hicks. 

Why himJ^ 

“ Him, who ? Do you know my secret ? Do you 
mean me ? ” 

‘‘ You ! No ; you know who I mean,” returned Tibbs 
with a knowing wink. 

“ For Heaven’s sake whom do you mean ? ” inquired 
Mr. Calton, Tvho, like Septimus Hicks, was all but out 
of his senses at the strange confusion. 

“ Why Mr. Simpson, of course,” replied Tibbs ; “ who 
else could I mean ? ” 

“ I see it all,” said the Byron-quoter ; Simpson mar- 
ries Julia Maplesone to-morrow morning ! ” 

“ Undoubtedly,” replied Tibbs, thoroughly satisfied, 

of course he does.” 

It would require the pencil of Hogarth to illustrate — 
our feeble pen is inadequate to describe — the expression 
which the countenances of Mr. Calton and Mr. Septimus 


THE BOARDING-HOUSE. 


53 


Hicks respectively assumed, at this unexpected announce- 
ment. Equally impossible is it to describe, although per- 
haps it is' easier for our lady readers to imagine, what 
arts the three ladies could have used, so completely to 
entangle their separate partners. Whatever they were, 
however, they were successful. The mother was per- 
fectly aware of the intended marriage of both daughters ; 
and the young ladies were equally acquainted with the 
intention of their estimable parent. They agreed, how- 
ever, that it would have a much better appearance if 
each feigned ignorance of the other’s engagement ; and 
it was equally desirable that all the marriages should 
take place on the same day, to prevent the discovery of 
one clandestine alliance, operating prejudicially on the 
others. Hence, the mystification of Mr. Calton iind Mr. 
Septimus Hicks, and the preengagement of the unwary 
Tibbs. 

On the following morning, Mr. Septimus Hicks was 
united to Miss Matilda Maplesone. Mr. Simpson also 
entered into a “ holy alliance ” with Miss Julia : Tibbs 
acting as father, “ his first appearance in that character.” 
Mr. Calton, not being quite so eager as the two young 
men, was rather sti’uck by the double discovery ; and as 
he had found some difficulty in getting any one to give 
the lady away, it occurred to him that the best mode of 
obviating the inconvenience would be not to take her at 
all. The lady, however, “ appealed,” as her counsel said 
on the trial of the cause, Maplesone v. Gallon, for a 
breach of promise, “ with a broken heart, to the outraged 
laws of her country.” She recovered damages to the 
amount of 1000/. which the unfortunate knocker was 
compelled to pay. Mr. Septimus Hicks having walked 
the hospitals, took it into his head to Vv^alk off altogether. 


54 


SKETCHES BY BOZ. 


His injured wife is at present residing with her mother 
at Boulogne. Mr. Simpson, having the misfortune to 
lose his wife six weeks after marriage (by her eloping 
with an officer during his temporary sojourn in the Fleet 
Prison, in consequence of his inability to discharge her 
little mantua-maker’s bill), and being disinherited by his 
father, who died soon afterwards, was fortunate enough 
to obtain a permanent engagement at a fashionable hair- 
cutter’s ; hairdressing being a science to whibh he had 
frequently directed his attention. In this situation he 
had necessarily many opportunities of making himself 
acquainted with the habits, and style of thinking, of the 
exclusive portion of the nobility of this kingdom. To 
this fortunate circumstance are we indebted for the pro- 
duction of those brilliant efforts of genius, his fashionable 
novels, which so long as good taste, unsullied by exagger- 
ation, cant, and quackery, continues to exist, cannot fail 
to instruct and amuse the thinking portion of the com- 
munity. 

It only remains to add, that this complication of disor- 
ders completely deprived poor Mrs. Tibbs of all her in- 
mates, except the one whom she could have best spared 
— her husband. That wretched little man returned 
liome, on the day of the wedding, in a state of partial 
intoxication ; and, under the influence of wine, excite- 
ment, and despair, actually dared to brave the anger of 
his wife. Since that ill-fated hour he has constantly 
taken his meals in the kitchen, to which apartment, it is 
understood, his witticisms will be in future confined : a 
turn-up bedstead having been conveyed there by Mrs. 
Tibbs’s order for his exclusive accommodation. It is 
possible that he will be enabled to finish, in that seclu- 
sion, his story of the volunteers. 


THE BOARDING-HOUSE. 


55 


The advertisement has again appeared in tlie morn- 
ing papers. Kesults must be reserved for another 
chapter. 


CHAPTER THE SECOND. 

Well ! ” said little Mrs. Tibbs to herself, as she sat 
in the front parlor of the Coram Street mansion one 
morning, mending a piece of stair-carpet off the first 
landing ; — “ Things have not turned out so badl v, 
either, and if I only get a favorable answer to the ad- 
vertisement, we shall be full again.” 

Mrs. Tibbs resumed her occupation of making worsted 
lattice-work in the carpet, anxiously listening to the two- 
penny postman, who was hammering his way down the 
street, at the rate of a penny a knock. The house was 
as quiet as possible. There was only one low sound to 
be heard — it was the unhappy Tibbs cleaning the gen- 
tlemen’s boots in the back kitchen, and accompanying 
himself with a buzzing noise, in wretched mockery of 
humming a tune. 

The postman drew near the house. He paused — so 
did Mrs. Tibbs. A knock — a bustle — a letter — 
post-paid. 

“ T. I. presents compt. to I. T. and T. I. begs To say 
that i see the advertisement And she will Do Herself 
the pleasure of calling On you at 12 o’clock to-morrow 
morning. 

“T. I. as To apologise to I. T. for the shortness 


56 


SKETCHES BY BOZ. 


Of the notice But i hope it will not unconvenience 
you. “I remain yours Truly 

“ Wednesday evening.” 

Little Mrs. Tibbs perused the document, over and 
over again ; and the more she read it, the more was she 
confused by the mixture of the first and third person ; 
the substitution of the I ” for the T. I. ; ” and 
transition of the ‘‘ I. T.” to the “ you.” The writ- 
ing looked like a skein of thread in a tangle, and the 
note was ingeniously folded into a perfect square, with 
the direction squeezed up into the right-hand corner, as 
if it were ashamed of itself. The back of the epistle 
was pleasingly ornamented with a large red wafer, 
which, with the addition of divers ink-stains, bore a 
marvellous resemblance to a black beetle trodden upon. 
One thing, however, was perfectly clear to the perplexed 
Mrs. Tibbs. Somebody was to call at twelve. The 
drawing-room was forthwith dusted for the third time 
that morning ; three or four chairs were pulled out of 
their places, and a corresponding number of books care- 
fully upset, in order that there might be a due absence of 
formality. Down went the piece of stair-carpet before 
noticed, and up ran Mrs. Tibbs “ to make herself tidy.” 

The clock of New Saint Pancras Church struck 
twelve, and the Foundling, with laudable politeness, 
did the same ten minutes afterwards. Saint something 
else struck the quarter, and then there arrived a single 
lady with a double knock, in a pelisse the color of the 
interior of a damson pie ; a bonnet of the same, with a 
regular conservatory of artificial flowers ; a white veil, 
and a green parasol, with a cobweb border. 

The visitor (who was very fat and red-faced) was 


THE BOARDING-HOUSE. 


57 


shown into the drawing-room; Mrs. Tibbs presented 
herself, and the negotiation commenced. 

“I called in consequence of an advertisement,” said 
the stranger, in a voice as if she had been playing a set 
of Pan’s pipes for a fortnight without leaving off. 

“ Yes ! ” said Mrs. Tibbs, rubbing her hands very 
slowly, and looking the applicant full in the face — two 
things she always did on such occasions. 

“ Money isn’t no object whatever to me,” said the 
lady, “ so much as living in a state of retirement and 
obtrusion.” 

Mrs. Tibbs, as a matter of course, acquiesced in such 
an exceedingly natural desire. 

“ I am constantly attended by a medical man,” re- 
sumed the pelisse wearer ; “ I have been a shocking 
Unitarian for some time — I, indeed, have had very 
little peace since the death of Mr. Bloss.” 

Mrs. Tibbs looked at the relict of the departed’ Bloss, 
and thought he must have had very little peace in his 
time. Of course she could not say so; so she looked 
very sympathizing. 

“ I shall be a good deal of trouble to you,” said Mrs. 
Bloss ; “ but, for that trouble I am willing to pay. I 
am going through a course of treatment which renders 
attention necessary. I have one mutton chop in bed at 
half-past eight, and another at ten, every morning.” 

Mrs. Tibbs, as in duty bound, expressed the pity she 
felt for anybody placed in such a distressing situation ; 
and the carnivorous Mrs. Bloss proceeded to arrange the 
various preliminaries with wonderful despatch. “ Now 
mind,” said that lady, after terms were arranged ; “ I am 
to have the second-floor front, for my bedroom ? ” 

“ Yes, ma’am.” 


58 


SICETCHES BY BOZ. 


And you’ll find room for my little servant Agnes ? ” 

‘‘ Oh ! certainly.” 

And I can have one of the cellars in the area for my 
bottled porter.” 

“ With the greatest pleasure ; — James shall get it 
ready for you by Saturday.” 

And I’ll join the company at the breakfast-table on 
Sunday morning,” said Mrs. Bloss. “ I shall get up on 
purpose.” 

“ Very well,” returned Mrs. Tibbs, in her most amiable 
tone ; for satisfactory references had “ been given and re- 
quired,” and it was quite certain that the new comer had 
plenty of money. It’s rather singular,” continued Mrs. 
Tibbs, with what was meant for a most bewitching smile, 
that we have a gentleman now with us, who is in a 
very delicate state of health — a Mr. Gobler. — His 
apartment is the back drawing-room.” 

“ The next room ? ” inquired Mrs. Bloss. 

“ The next room,” repeated the hostess. 

“ How very promiscuous ! ” ejaculated the widow. 

“ He hardly ever gets up,” said Mrs. Tibbs, in a 
whisper. 

“ Lor ! ” cried Mrs. Bloss, in an equally low tone. 

“ And when he is up,” said Mrs. Tibbs, “ we never can 
persuade him to go to bed again.” 

“ Dear me ! ” said the astonished Mrs. Bloss, drawing 
her chair nearer Mrs. Tibbs. “ What is his complaint ? ” 

“ Why, the fact is,” replied Mrs. Tibbs, with a most 
communicative air, “ he has no stomach whatever.” 

‘‘ No what ? ” inquired Mrs. Bloss, with a look of the 
most indescribable alarm. 

‘‘No stomach,” repeated Mrs. Tibbs, with a shake of 
the head. 


THE BOARDING-HOUSE. 


59 


“ Lord bless us ! what an extraordinary case ! ” gasped 
Mrs. Bloss, as if she understood the communication in its 
literal sense, and was astonished at a gentleman without 
a stomach finding it necessary to board anywhere. 

“ When I say he has no stomach,” explained the chatty 
little Mrs. Tibbs, “ I mean that his digestion is so much 
impaired, and his interior so deranged, that his stomach 
is not of the least use to him ; — in fact, it’s an incon- 
venience.” 

“ Never heard such a case in my life ! ” exclaimed Mrs. 
Bloss. “ Why, he’s worse than I am.” 

‘‘ Oh, yes ! ” replied Mrs. Tibbs ; — certainly.” She 
said this with great confidence, for the damson pelisse 
suggested that Mrs. Bloss, at all events, was not suffer- 
ing under Mr. Gobler’s complaint. 

“ You have quite incited my curiosity,” said Mrs. 
Bloss, as she rose to depart. “ How I long to see 
him ! ” 

‘‘ He generally comes down, once a week,” replied 
Mrs. Tibbs ; “ I dare say you’ll see him on Sunday.” 
With this consolatory promise Mrs. Bloss was obliged 
to be contented. She accordingly walked slowly down 
the stairs, detailing her complaints all the way ; and 
Mrs. Tibbs followed her, uttering an exclamation of com^ 
passion at every step. James (who looked very gritty, 
for he was cleaning the knives) fell up the kitchen-stairs, 
and opened the street-door ; and, after mutual farew^ells, 
Mrs. Bloss slowly departed, down the shady side of the 
street. 

It is almost superfluous to say, that the lady whom w^e 
have just shown out at the street-door (and whom the 
two female servants are now inspecting from the second- 
floor windows) was exceedingly vulgar, ignorant, and 


GO 


sketciip:s by boz. 


selfish. Her deceased better-half had been an eminent 
cork-cutter, in which capacity he had amassed a decent 
fortune. He had no relative but his nephew, and no 
friend but his cook. The former had the insolence one 
morning to ask for the loan of fifteen pounds ; and, by 
way of retaliation, he married the latter next day ; he 
made a will immediately afterwards, containing a burst 
of honest indignation against his nephew (who supported 
himself and two sisters on 100/. a year), and a bequest 
of his whole property to his wife. He felt ill after 
breakfast, and died after dinner. There is a mantelpiece- 
looking tablet in a civic parish church, setting forth his 
virtues, and deploring his loss. He never dishonored a 
bill, or gave away a halfpenny. 

The relict and sole executrix of this noble-minded man 
was an odd mixture of shrewdness and simplicity, liber- 
ality and meanness. Bred up as she had been, she knew 
no mode of living so agreeable as a boarding-house ; and 
having nothing to do, and nothing to wish for, she natu- 
rally imagined she must be very ill — an impression 
which was most assiduously promoted by her medical 
attendant, Dr. Wosky, and her handmaid Agnes : both 
of whom, doubtless for good reasons, encouraged all her 
extravagant notions. 

Since the catastrophe recorded in the last chapter, 
Mrs. Tibbs had been very shy of young-lady boarders. 
Her present inmates were all lords of the creation, and 
she availed herself of the opportunity of their assem- 
blage at the dinner-table, to announce the expected arri- 
val of Mrs. Bloss. The gentlemen received the com 
munication with stoical indifference, and Mrs. Tibbs 
devoted all her energies to prepare for the reception of 
the valetudinarian. The second-fioor front was scrubbed. 


THE BOARDING-HOUSE. 


61 


and washed, and flannelled, till the wet went through to 
the drawing-room ceiling. Clean white counterpanes, 
and curtains, and napkins, water-bottles as clear as crys- 
tal, blue jugs, and mahogany furniture, added to the 
splendor, and increased the comfort, of the apartment. 
The warming-pan was in constant requisition, and a fire 
lighted in the room every day. The chattels of Mrs. 
Bloss were forwarded by instalments. First, there came 
a large hamper of Guinness’s stout, and an umbrella ; 
then, a train of trunks ; then, a pair of clogs and a band- 
box ; then, an easy-chair with an air-cushion ; then, a 
variety of suspicious-looking packages; and — ‘‘though 
last not least ” — Mrs. Bloss and Agnes : the latter in a 
cherry-colored merino dress, open-work stockings, and 
shoes with sandals : like a disguised Columbine. 

The installation of the Duke of Wellington, as Chan- 
cellor of the University of Oxford, was nothing, in point 
of bustle and turmoil, to the installation of Mrs. Bloss 
in her new quarters. True, there was no bright doctor 
of civil law to deliver a classical address on the occasion ; 
but there were several other old Avomen present, who 
spoke quite as much to the purpose, and understood 
themselves equally well. The chop-eater was so fatigued 
with the process of removal that she declined leaving her 
room until the following morning ; so a mutton-chop, 
pickle, a pill, a pint bottle of stout, and other medicines, 
were carried up-stairs for her consumption. 

“ Why, what do you think, ma’am ? ” inquired the in- 
quisitive Agnes of her mistress, after they had been in 
the house some three hours ; “ what do you think, ma’am ? 
the lady of the house is married.” 

“ Married ! ” said Mrs. Bloss, taking the pill and a 
draught of Guinness — “ married ! Unpossible ! ” 


62 


SKETCHES BY BOZ. 


“ She is indeed, ma’am,” returned the Columbine ; 
“ and her husband, ma’am, lives — he — he — he — lives 
in the kitchen, ma’am.” 

“ In the kitchen ! ” 

“ Yes, ma’am ; and he — he — he — the housemaid 
savs, he never goes into the parlor except on Sundays ; 
and that Mrs. Tibbs makes him clean the gentlemen’s 
boots ; and that he cleans the windows, too, sometimes ; 
and that one morning early, when he was in the front 
balcony cleaning the drawing-room windows, he called 
out to a gentleman on the opposite side of the way, who 
used to live here — ^ Ah ! Mr. Calton, sir, how are 
you ? ’ ” Here the attendant laughed till Mrs. Bloss 
was in serious apprehension of her chuckling herself 
into a fit. 

Well, I never ! ” said Mrs. Bloss. 

“Yes. And please, ma’am, the servants gives him 
gin-and-Tvater sometimes ; and then he cries, and says 
he hates his wife and the boarders, and wants to tickle 
them.” 

“ Tickle the boarders ! ” exclaimed Mrs. Bloss, seriously 
alarmed. 

“ No, ma’am, not the boarders, the servants.” 

“ Oh, is that all ! ” said Mrs. Bloss, quite satisfied. 

“ He wanted to kiss me as I came up the kitchen- 
stairs, just now,” said Agnes, indignantly ; “ but I gave it 
liira — a little wretch ! ” 

This intelligence was but too true. A long course of 
snubbing and neglect ; his days spent in the kitchen, and 
his nights in the turn-up bedstead, had completely broken 
the little spirit that the unfortunate volunteer had ever 
possessed. He had no one to whom he could detail his 
injuries but the servants, and they were almost of neces- 


THE BOARDING-HOUSE. 




sity his chosen confidants. It is no less strange than 
true, however, that the little weaknesses which he had 
incurred, most probably during his military career, 
seemed to increase as his comforts diminished. He was 
actually a sort of journeyman Giovanni of the basement 
story. 

The next morning, being Sunday, breakfast was laid 
in the front parlor at ten o’clock. Nine was the usual 
time, but the family always breakfasted an hour later on 
Sabbath. Tibbs enrobed himself in his Sunday costume 
— a black coat, and exceedingly short, thin trousers ; with 
a very large white waistcoat, white stockings and cravat, 
and Blucher boots — and mounted to the parlor afore- 
said. Nobody had come down, and he amused himself 
by drinking the contents of the milkpot with a tea- 
spoon. 

A pair of slippers were heard descending the stairs. 
Tibbs flew to a chair ; and a stern-looking man, of about 
fifty, with very little hair on his head, and a Sunday 
paper in his hand, entered the room. 

“ Good morning, Mr. Evenson,” said Tibbs, very hum- 
bly, with something between a nod and bow. 

“ How do you do, Mr. Tibbs ? ” replied he of the slip- 
pers, as he sat himself down, and began to read his paper 
without saying another Avord. 

“ Is Mr. Wisbottle in town to-day, do you know, sir ? ” 
inquired Tibbs, just for the sake of saying something. 

I should think he was,” replied the stern gentleman. 
“ He was whistling ‘ The Light Guitar,’ in the next room 
to mine, at five o’clock this morning.” 

“ He’s very fond of whistling,” said Tibbs, with a 
slight smirk. 

“Yes — I a’n’t,” was the laconic reply. 


64 


SKETCHES BY BOZ. 


Mr. John Evenson was in the receipt of an indepen- 
dent income, arising chiefly from various houses he owned 
in the different suburbs. He was very morose and dis- 
contented. He was a thorough radical, and used to at- 
tend a great variety of public meetings, for the express 
purpose of finding fault with everything that was pro- 
posed. Mr. Wisbottle, on the other hand, was a high 
Tory. He was a clerk in the Woods and Forests Office, 
which he considered rather an aristocratic employment ; 
he knew the peerage by heart, and could tell you, off- 
hand, where any illustrious personage lived. He had a 
good set of teeth, and a capital tailor. Mr. Evenson looked 
on all these qualifications with profound contempt ; and 
the consequence was that the two were always disputing, 
much to the edification of the rest of the house. It 
should be added, that, in addition to his partiality for 
whistling, Mr. Wisbottle had a great idea of his singing 
powers. There were two other boarders, besides the 
gentleman in the back drawing-room — Mr. Alfred Tom- 
kins and Mr. Frederick O’Bleary. Mr. Tomkins was a 
clerk in a wine-house ; he was a connoisseur in paint- 
ings, and had a wonderful eye for the picturesque. Mr. 
O’Bleary was an Irishman, recently imported ; he was in 
a perfectly wild state ; and had come over to England to 
be an apothecary, a clerk in a government office, an 
actor, a reporter, or anything else that turned up — he 
was not particular. He was on familiar terms with 
two small Irish members, and got franks for everybody 
in the house. He felt convinced that his intrinsic merits 
must procure him a high destiny. He wore shepherd’s- 
plaid inexpressibles, and used to look under all the ladies’ 
bonnets as he walked along the streets. His manners 
and appearance reminded one of Orson. 


THE BOARDING-HOUSE. 


65 


“ Here comes Mr. Wisbottle,’^ said Tibbs ; and Mr. 
Wisbottle forthwith appeared in blue slippers, and a 
shawl dressing-gown, whistling ‘piacerT 

“ Good morning, sir,” said Tibbs again. It was almost 
the only thing he ever said to anybody. 

“ How are you, Tibbs ? ” condescendingly replied the 
amateur ; and he walked to the window, and whistled 
louder than ever. 

“ Pretty air, that ! ” said Evenson, with a snarl, and 
without taking his eyes off the paper. 

“ Glad you like it,” replied Wisbottle, highly gratified. 

“ Don’t you think it would sound better, if you whis- 
tled it a little louder ? ” inquired the mastiff. 

“ No ; I don’t think it would,” rejoined the unconscious 
Wisbottle. 

“ I’ll tell you what, Wisbottle,” said Evenson, who had 
been bottling up his anger for some hours — “ the next 
time you feel disposed to whistle ^ The Light Guitar ’ at 
five o’clock in the morning. I’ll trouble you to whistle it 
with your head out o’ window. If you don’t, I’ll learn 
the triangle — I w ill by — ” 

The entrance of Mrs. Tibbs (with the keys in a little 
basket) interrupted the threat, and prevented its conclu- 
sion. 

Mrs. Tibbs apologized for being down rather late ; the 
bell was rung ; James brought up the urn, and received 
an unlimited order for dry toast and bacon. Tibbs sat 
down at the bottom of the table, and began eating 
water-cresses like a Nebuchadnezzar. Mr. O’Bleary 
appeared, and Mr. Alfred Tomkins. The compliments 
of the morning were exchanged, and the tea was 
made. 

“ God bless me ! exclaimed Tomkins, who had been 
5 


VOL. II. 


66 


SKETCHES BY BOZ. 


looking out at the window. Here — Wisbottle — pray 
come here — make haste.” 

Mr. Wisbottle started from the table, and every one 
looked up. 

“ Do you see,” said the connoisseur, placing Wisbottle 
in the right position — “a little more this way : there — 
do you see how splendidly the light falls upon the left 
side of that broken chimney-pot at No. 48 ? ” 

“ Dear me ! I see,” replied Wisbottle, in a tone of ad- 
miration. 

“ I never saw an object stand out so beautifully against 
the clear sky in my life,” ejaculated Alfred. Everybody 
(except John Evenson) echoed the sentiment ; for Mr. 
Tomkins had a great character for finding out beauties 
which no one else could discover — he certainly de- 
served it. 

“ I have frequently observed a chimney-pot in College 
Green, Dublin, which has a much better effect,” said the 
patriotic O’Bleary, who never allowed Ireland to be out- 
done on any point. 

The assertion w^as received with obvious incredulity, 
for Mr. Tomkins declared that no other chimney-pot in 
the United Kingdom, broken or unbroken, could be so 
beautiful as the one at No. 48. 

The room-door was suddenly thrown open, and Agnes 
appeared leading in Mrs. Bloss, who was dressed in a 
geranium-colored muslin gown, and displayed a gold 
watch of huge dimensions ; a chain to match ; and a 
splendid, assortment of rings, with enormous stones. A 
general rush was made for a chair, and a regular intro- 
duction took place. Mr. John Evenson made a slight 
inclination of the head ; Mr. Frederick O’Bleary, Mr. 
Alfred Tomkins, and Mr. Wisbottle, bowed like the man- 


THE BOARDING-HOUSE. 


67 


darins in a grocer’s shop ; Tibbs rubbed hands, and went 
round in circles. He was observed to close one eye, and to 
assume a clock-work sort of expression with the other ; 
this has been considered as a wink, and it has been 
reported that Agnes was its object. We repel the 
calumny, and challenge contradiction. 

Mrs. Tibbs inquired after Mrs. Bloss’s health in a low 
tone. Mrs. Bloss, with a supreme contempt for the 
memory of Bindley Murray, answered the various ques- 
tions in a most satisfactory manner ; and a pause ensued, 
during which the eatables disappeared with awful ra- 
pidity. 

You must have been very much pleased with the 
appearance of the ladies going to the drawing-room the 
other day, Mr. O’Bleary ? ” said Mrs. Tibbs, hoping to 
start a topic. 

“ Yes,” replied Orson, with a mouthful of toast. 

“ Never saw anything like it before, I suppose ? ” sug- 
gested Wisbottle. 

“ No — except the Lord Lieutenant’s levees,” replied 
O’Bleary. 

“Are they at all equal to our drawing-rooms ?” 

“ Oh, infinitely superior ! ” 

“ Gad ! I don’t know,” said the aristocratic Wisbottle, 
“ the Dowager Marchioness of Publiccash was most 
magnificently dressed, and so was the Baron Slappen- 
bachenhausen.” 

“ What was he presented on ? ” inquired Evenson. 

“ On his arrival in England.” 

“ I thought so,” growled the radical ; “ you never hear 
of these fellows being presented on their going away 
again. They know better than that.” 

“ Unless somebody pervades them with an apint- 


C8 


SKETCHES BY BOZ. 


inent,” said Mrs. Bloss, joining in the conversation in a 
faint voice. 

“Well/’ said Wisbottle, evading the point, “it’s a 
splendid sight.” 

“And did it never occur to you,” inquired the rad- 
ical, who never would he quiet ; “ did it never occur to 
you, that you pay for these precious ornaments of so- 
ciety ? ” 

“ It certainly has occurred to me,” said Wisbottle, who 
thought this answer was a poser ; “ it has occurred to me, 
and I am willing to pay for them.” 

“ Well, and it has occurred to me too,” replied John 
Evenson, “ and I a’n’t willing to pay for ’em. Then why 
should I ? — I say, why should I ? ” continued the poli- 
tician, laying down the paper, and knocking his knuckles 
on the table. “ There are two great principles — de- 
mand — ” 

“ A cup of tea if you please, dear,” interrupted Tibbs. 

“ And supply — ” 

“ May I trouble you to hand this tea to Mr. Tibbs ? ” 
said Mrs. Tibbs, interruj)ting the argument, and uncon- 
sciously illustrating it. 

The thread of the orator’s discourse was broken. He 
drank his tea and resumed the paper. 

“ If it’s very line,” said Mr. Alfred Tomkins, address- 
ing the company in general, “ I shall ride down to Eich^ 
mond to-day, and come back by the steamer. There are 
some splendid effects of light and shade on the Thames ; 
the contrast between the blueness of the sky and the 
yellow water is frequently exceedingly beautiful.” Mr. 
Wisbottle hummed, “ Flow on, thou shining river.” 

“We have some splendid steam-vessels in Ireland,” 
said O’ Bleary. 


THE BOARDING-HOUSE. 


GJ 

‘‘ Certainly,” said Mrs. Bloss, delighted to find a sub- 
ject broached in which she could take part. 

“ The accommodations are extraordinary,” said O’- 
Bleary. 

“ Extraordinary indeed,” returned Mrs. Bloss. “ When 
Mr. Bloss Avas alive, he was promiscuously obligated to 
go to Ireland on business. I went with him, and raly 
the manner in which the ladies and gentlemen Avere 
accommodated with berths, is not creditable.” 

Tibbs, who had been listening to the dialogue, looked 
aghast, and evinced a strong inclination to ask a question, 
but was checked by a look from his Avife. Mr. Wisbottle 
laughed, and said Tomkins had made a pun ; and Tom- 
kins laughed too, and said he had not. 

The remainder of the meal passed off as breakfasts 
usually do. Conversation flagged, and people played 
Avith their tea-spoons. The gentlemen looked out at the 
AAundoAV ; walked about the room ; and, when they got 
near the door, dropped off one by one. Tibbs retired to 
the back parlor by his wife’s orders, to check the green- 
grocer’s Aveekly account ; and ultimately Mrs. Tibbs and 
Mrs. Bloss Avere left alone together. 

“ Oh dear ! ” said the latter, I feel alarmingly fixint ; 
it’s A^ery singular.” (It certainly Avas, for she had eaten 
four pounds of solids that morning.) “ By the by,” said 
Mrs. Bloss, “ I have not seen Mr. What’s his name yet.” 

“ Mr. Gobler ? ” suggested Mrs. Tibbs. 

Yes.” 

Oh ! ” said Mrs. Tibbs, he is a most mysterious 
person. He has his meals regularly sent up-stairs, and 
sometimes don’t leave his room for weeks together.” 

“ I haven’t seen or heard nothing of him,” repeated 
Mrs. Bloss. 


70 


SKETCHES BY BOZ. 


‘‘ I dare say you’ll hear him to-night,” replied Iiirs. 
Tibbs ; “ he generally groans a good deal on Sunday 
evenings.” 

“ I never felt such an interest in any one in my life,” 
ejaculated Mrs. Bloss. A little double-knock interrupted 
the conversation ; Doctor Wosky was announced, and 
duly shown in. He was a little man with a red face, — 
dressed of course in black, with a stiff white neckerchief. 
He had a very good practice, and plenty of money, wdiich 
he had amassed by invariably humoring the worst fancies 
of all the females of all the families he had ever been 
introduced into. Mrs. Tibbs offered to retire, but was 
entreated to stay. 

‘‘ Well, my dear ma’am, and how are we ? ” inquired 
Wosky, in a soothing tone. 

‘‘Very ill, doctor — very ill,” said Mrs. Bloss, in a 
whisper. 

Ah ! we must take care of ourselves ; — we must, 
indeed,” said the obsequious Wosky, as he felt the pulse 
of his interesting patient. 

“ How is our appetite ? ” 

Mrs. Bloss shook her head. 

“ Our friend requires great care,” said Wosky, appeal- 
ing to Mrs. Tibbs, who of bourse assented. ‘‘ I hope, 
however, with the blessing of Providence, that we shall 
be enabled to make her quite stout again.” Mrs. Tibbs 
wondered in her own mind what the patient would be 
when she was made quite stout. 

“We must take stimulants,”. said the cunning Wosky 
— “ plenty of nourishment, and, above all, we must keep 
our nerves* quiet ; we positively must not give way to 
our sensibilities. We must take all we can get,” con- 
cluded the doctor, as he pocketed his fee, “ and we must 
keep quiet.” 


THE BOARDING-HOUSE. 


7J 


“ Dear man ! ” exclaimed Mrs. Bloss, as the doctor 
stepped into his carriage. 

“ Charming creature indeed — quite a lady’s man ! ” 
said Mrs. Tibbs, and Doctor Wosky rattled away to 
make fresh gulls of delicate females, and pocket fresh 
fees. 

As we had occasion, in a former paper, to describe a 
dinner at Mrs. Tibbs’s ; and as one meal went off very 
like another on all ordinary occasions ; we will not 
fatigue our readers by entering into any other detailed 
account of the domestic economy of the establishment. 
We will therefore proceed to events, merely premising 
that the mysterious tenant of the back drawing-room 
was a lazy, selfish hypochondriac ; always complaining 
and never ill. As his character in many respects closely 
assimilated to that of Mrs. Bloss, a very warm friendship 
soon sprang up between them. He was taU, thin, and 
pale ; he always fancied he had a severe pain somewhere 
or other, and his face invariably wore a pinched, screwed- 
up expression ; he looked, indeed, like a man who had 
got his feet in a tub of exceedingly hot water, against 
his will. 

For two or three months after Mrs. Bloss’s first ap- 
pearance in Coram Street, John Evenson was observed 
to become, every day, more sarcastic, and more ill- 
natured ; and there was a degree of additional impor- 
tance in his manner, which clearly showed that he fan- 
cied he had discovered something, which he only wanted 
a proper opportunity of divulging. He found it at 
last. 

One evening, the different inmates of the house were 
assembled in the drawing-room engaged in their ordinary 
occupations. Mr. Gobler and Mrs. Bloss were sitting at 


72 


SKETCHES BY BOZ. 


a small card-table near the centre window, playing crib- 
bage ; Mr. Wisbottle was describing semicircles on the 
music-stool, turning over the leaves of a book on the 
piano, and humming most melodiously ; Alfred Tomkins 
was sitting at the round table, with his elbows duly 
squared, making a pencil sketch of a head considerably 
larger than his own ; O’Bleary was reading Horace, and 
trying to look as if he understood it ; and John Evenson 
had drawn his chair close to Mrs. Tibbs’s work-table, and 
was talking to her very earnestly in a low tone. 

“ I can assure you, Mrs. Tibbs,” said the radical, lay- 
ing his forefinger on the muslin she was at work on ; “I 
can assure you, Mrs. Tibbs, that nothing but the interest 
I take in your -welfare would induce me to make this 
communication. I repeat, I fear Wisbottle is endeavor- 
ing to gain the affections of that young woman, Agnes, 
and that he is in the habit of meeting her in the store- 
room on the first floor, over the leads. From my bed- 
room I distinctly heard voices there, last night. I opened 
my door immediately, and crept very softly on to the 
landing : there I saw Mr. Tibbs, who, it seems, had 
been disturbed also. — Bless me, Mrs. Tibbs, you change 
color ! ” 

“ No, no — it’s nothing,” returned Mrs. T. in a hurried 
manner ; “ it’s only the heat of the room.” 

“ A flush ! ” ejaculated Mrs. Bloss from the card-table ; 
“ that’s good for four.” 

“ If I thought it was Mr. Wisbottle,” said Mrs. Tibbs, 
after a pause, “ he should leave this house instantly.” 

“ Go ! ” said Mrs. Bloss again. 

“ And if I thought,” continued the hostess with a most 
threatening air, “ if I thought he was assisted by Mr. 
Tibbs — ” 


THE BOARDING-HOUSE. 


73 


One for his nob ! ” said Gobler. 

Ob,” said Evenson, in a most soothing tone — be 
liked to make mischief — “I should hope Mr. Tibbs was 
not in any way implicated. He always appeared to me 
very harmless.” 

“I have generally found him so,” sobbed poor little 
Mrs. Tibbs ; crying like a watering-pot. 

“ Hush ! hush ! pray — Mrs. Tibbs — consider — we 
shall be observed — ^ pray, don’t ! ” said John Evenson, 
fearing his whole plan would be interrupted. “We will 
set the matter at rest with the utmost care, and I shall 
be most happy to assist you in doing so.” 

Mrs. Tibbs murmured her thanks. 

“ When you think every one has retired to rest to- 
night,” said Evenson very pompously, “ if you’ll meet 
me without a light, just outside my bedroom-door, by the 
staircase-window, I think we can ascertain who the par- 
ties really are, and you will afterwards be enabled to 
proceed as you think proper.” 

Mrs. Tibbs was easily persuaded ; her curiosity was 
excited, her jealousy was roused, and the arrangement 
was forthwith made. She resumed her w'ork, and John 
Evenson walked up and down the room with his hands 
in his pockets, looking as if nothing had happened. The 
game of cribbage was over, and conversation began 
again. 

“ Well, Mr. O’Bleary,” said the humming-top, turning 
round on his pivot, and facing the company, “ what did 
you think of Yauxhall the other night ? ” 

“ Oh, it’s very fair,” replied Orson, who had been en- 
thusiastically delighted with the whole exhibition. 

“ Never saw anything like that Captain Ross’s set-out 
— eh?’' 


SKETCHES BY BOZ. 


71 

“ No,” returned the patriot, with his usual reserv'ation 
’ — “ except in Dublin.” 

I saw the Count de Canky and Captain Fitzthomp- 
Bon in the Gardens,” said Wisbottle ; “ they appeared 
much delighted.” 

Then it must be beautiful,” snarled Evenson. 

“ I think the white bears is partickerlerly well done,” 
suggested Mrs. Bloss. “ In their shaggy white coats they 
look just like Polar bears — don’t you think they do, 
JNIr. Evenson ? ” 

“ I think they look a great deal more like omnibus cads 
on all fours,” replied the discontented one. 

‘‘ Upon the whole, I should have liked our evening 
very well,” gasped Gobler ; “ only I caught a desperate 
cold which increased my pain dreadfully ! I was obliged 
to have several shower-baths, before I could leave my 
room.” 

“ Capital things those shower-baths ! ” ejaculated Wis- 
bottle. 

Excellent ! ” said Tomkins. 

“ Delightful ! ” chimed in O’ Bleary. (He had once 
seen one outside a tinman’s.) 

“ Disgusting machines ! ” rejoined Evenson, who ex- 
tended his dislike to almost every created object, mascu- 
line, feminine, or neuter. 

“ Disgusting, JMr. Evenson ! ” said Gobler, in a tone 
of strong indignation. — “ Disgusting ! Look at their 
utility — consider how many lives they have saved by 
promoting perspiration.” 

Promoting perspiration, indeed,” growled John Even- 
son, stopping short in his walk across the large squares 
in the pattern of the carpet — “ I was ass enough to be 
persuaded some time ago to have one in my bedroom. 


THE BOAKDING-HOUSE. 


75 


^Gad, I was in it once, and it effectually cured me^ for 
the mere sight of it threw me into a profuse perspiration 
for six months afterwards.” 

A titter followed this announcement, and before it had 
subsided James brought up “the tray,” containing the 
remains of a leg of lamb which had made its dehut at 
dinner ; bread ; cheese ; an atom of butter in a forest 
of parsley ; one pickled walnut and the third of another, 
and so forth. The boy disappeared, and returned again 
with another tray, containing glasses and jugs of hot and 
cold water. The gentlemen brought in their spirit bot- 
tles ; the housemaid placed divers plated bedroom can- 
dlesticks under the card-table ; and the servants retired 
for the night. 

Chairs were drawn round the table, and the con versa 
tion proceeded in the customary manner. John Evenson, 
who never ate supper, lolled on the sofa, and amused 
himself by contradicting everybody. O’Bleary ate as 
much as he could conve^iiently carry, and Mrs. Tibbs 
felt a due degree of indignation thereat ; Mr. Gobler 
and Mrs. Bloss conversed most affectionately on the 
subject of pill-taking and other innocent amusements : 
and Tomkins and Wisbottle “got into an argument;” 
that is to say, they both talked very loudly and vehe- 
mently, each flattering himself that he had got some 
advantage about something, and neither of them having 
more than a very indistinct idea of what they were talk- 
ing about. An hour or two passed away ; and the 
boarders and the brass candlesticks retired in pairs to 
their respective bedrooms. John Evenson pulled off his 
boots, locked his door, and determined to sit up until Mr. 
Gobler had retired. He always sat in the drawing-room 
an hour after everybody else had left it, taking medicine, 
and groaning. 


76 


SKETCHES BY BOZ. 


Great Corarn Street was hushed into a state of pro- 
found rej)ose : it was nearly two o’clock. A hackney 
coach now and then rumbled slowly by ; and occasionally 
some stray lawyer’s clerk, on his way home to Somers’ 
Town, struck his iron heel on the top of the coal-cellar 
with a noise resembling the click of a smoke-jack. A 
low, monotonous, gushing sound was heard, which added 
considerably to the romantic dreariness of the scene. 
It was the w^ater ‘‘ coming in ” at number eleven. 

“ He must be asleep by this time,” said John Evenson 
to himself after waiting with exemplary patience for 
nearly an hour after Mr. Gobler had left the drawing- 
room. He listened for a few moments ; the house was 
perfectly quiet ; he extinguished his rushlight, and 
opened his bedroom-door. The staircase was so dark 
that it was impossible to see anything. 

“ S — s — s ! ” whispered the mischief-maker, making a 
noise like the first indication a Catherine-wheel gives of 
the probability of its going off. 

“ Hush ; ” whispered somebody else. 

“ Is that you, Mrs. Tibbs ? ” 

“ Yes, sir.” 

“ Where ? ” 

“ Here ; ” and the misty outline of Mrs. Tibbs ap- 
peared at the staircase window like the ghost of Queen 
Anne in the tent scene in Richard. 

“This way, Mrs. Tibbs,” whispered the delighted 
busybody : “ give me your hand — there ! Whoever 
these people are, they are in the store-room now, for I 
have been looking down from my window, and I could 
see that they accidentally upset their candlestick, and 
are now in darkness. You have no shoes on, have 
you?” 


THE BOARDING-HOUSE. 


77 


“ No/’ said little Mrs. Tibbs, who could hardly speak 
for trembling. 

‘‘Well; I have taken my boots off, so we can go 
down, close to the storeroom-door, and listen over the 
banisters ; ” and down-stairs they both crept accord- 
ingly) every board creaking like a patent mangle on a 
Saturday afternoon. 

“ It’s Wisbottle and somebody. I’ll swear,” exclaimed 
the radical, in an energetic whisper, when they had 
listened for a few moments. 

“ Hush — prAy let’s hear what they say ! ” exclaimed 
Mrs. Tibbs, the gratification of whose curiosity was now 
paramount to every other consideration. 

“ Ah ! if I could but believe you,” said a female voice 
coquettishly, “ I’d be bound to settle my missis for life.” 

“ What does she say ? ” inquired Mr. Evenson, who 
was not quite so well situated as his companion. 

“ She says she’ll settle her missis’s life,” replied Mrs. 
Tibbs. “ The wretch ! they’re plotting murder.” 

“ I know you want money,” continued the voice, which 
belonged to Agnes ; “ and if you’d secure me the five 
hundred pound, I warrant she should take fire soon 
enough.” 

“ What’s that ? ” inquired Evenson again. He could 
just hear enough to want to hear more. 

“ I think she says she’ll set the house on fire,” replied 
the affrighted Mrs. Tibbs. “ But thank God I’m insured 
in the Phoenix ! ” 

“ The moment I have secured your mistress, my dear,” 
said a man’s voice, in a strong Irish brogue, “ you may 
depend on having the money.” 

“ Bless my soul, it’s Mr. O’Bleary ! ” exclaimed INIrs. 
Tibbs, in a parenthesis. 


78 


SKETCHES BY BOZ. 


“ The villain ! ” said the indignant ]\ir. Evenson. 

“ The first thing to be done,” continued the Hibernian, 
“ is to poison Mr. Gobler’s mind.” 

“ Oh, certainly ; ” returned Agnes. 

“ What’s that ? ” inquired Evenson again, in an agony 
of curiosity and a whisper. 

“ He says she’s to mind and poison Mr. Gobler,” re- 
plied Mrs. Tibbs, aghast at this sacrifice of human life. 

“ And in regard of Mrs. Tibbs,” continued O’Bleary. 
— Mrs. Tibbs shuddered. 

“Hush!” exclaimed Agnes, in a tone'*of the greatest 
alarm, just as Mrs. Tibbs was on the extreme verge of a 
fainting-fit. “ Hush ! ” 

“ Hush ! ” exclaimed Evenson, at the same moment to 
Mrs. Tibbs. 

“ There’s somebody coming up stairs,” said Agnes to 
O’Bleary. 

“ There’s somebod}^ coming down stairs,” whispered 
Evenson to Mrs. Tibbs. , 

“ Go into the parlor, sir,” said Agnes to her compan- 
ion. “ You will get there, before whoever it is, gets to 
the top of the hitchen-stairs.” 

“ The drawing-room, Mrs. Tibbs ! ” w^hispered the 
astonished Evenson to his equally astonished compan- 
ion ; and for the drawfing-room they both made, plainly 
hearing the rustling of two persons, one coming down 
stairs, and one coming up. 

“ What can it be ? ” exclaimed Mrs. Tibbs. “ It’s 
like a dream. I wouldn’t be found in this situation for 
the world ! ” 

“ Nor I,” returned Evenson, who could never bear a 
joke at his own expense. “ Hush 1 here they are at the 
door.” 


THE BOARDING-HOUSE- 


79 


“ What fun ?” whispered one of the new-comers. It 
was Wisbottle. ^ 

“Glorious!” replied his companion, in an- equally low 
tone. — This was Alfred Tomkins. “ Who would have 
thought it ? ” 

“ I told you so,” said Wisbottle, in a most knowing 
whisper. “ Lord bless you, he has paid her most ex- 
traordinary attention for the last two months. I saw 
’em when I was sitting at the piano to-night.” 

“Well, do you know I didn’t notice it?” interrupted 
Tomkins. ^ 

“ Not notice it ! ” continued W^isbottle. “ Bless you ; 
I saw him whispering to her, and she crying ; and then 
I’ll swear I heard him say something about to-night 
when we were all in bed.” 

“ They’re talking of us ! ” exclaimed the agonized 
Mrs. Tibbs, as the painful suspicion, and a sense of 
their situation, flashed upon her mind. 

“ I know it — I know it,” replied Evenson, with a 
melancholy consciousness that there was no mode of 
escape. 

“ What’s to be done ? we cannot both stop here ! ” ejac- 
ulated Mrs. Tibbs, in a state of partial derangement. 

“ I’ll get up the chimney,” replied Evenson, who really 
meant what he said. 

“ You can’t,” said Mrs. Tibbs, in despair. “ You can’t 
— it’s a register stove.” 

“ Hush ! ” repeated John Evenson. 

“ Hush — hush I ” cried somebody down-stairs. 

“ What a d — d hushing ! ” said Allred Tomkins, who 
began to get rather bewildered. 

“ There they are ! ” exclaimed the sapient Wisbottle, 
as a rustling noise was heard in the storeroom. 


80 


SKETCHES BY BOZ. 


“ Hark ! ” whispered both the youwg men. 

Hark ! ” repeated Mrs. Tibbs and Evenson. 

“ Let me alone, sir,” said a female voice in the store- 
room. 

Oh, Hagnes ! ” cried another voice, which clearly be- 
longed to Tibbs, for nobody else ever owned one like it. 

Oh, Hagnes — lovely creature ! ” 

“ Be quiet, sir ! ” (A bounce.) 

“ Hag — ” 

“ Be quiet, sir — I am ashamed of you. Think of 
your wife, Mr. Tibbs. Be quiet, sir ? ” 

“ My wife!” exclaimed the valorous Tibbs, who was 
clearly under the influence of gin-and-water, and a mis- 
placed attachment; “I ate her I Oh, Hagnes 1 when 
I was in the volunteer corjis, in eighteen hundred 
and — ” 

“ I declare I’ll scream. Be quiet, sir, will you ? 
(Another bounce and a scuffle.) 

“ What’s that ? ” exclaimed Tibbs, with a start. 

“ What’s what ? ” said Agnes, stopping short. 

“ Why, that I ” 

“ Ah ! you have done it nicely now, sir,” sobbed the 
frightened Agnes, as a tapping was heard at Mrs. Tibbs’ 
bedroom-door, which would have beaten any dozen wood- 
peckers hollow. 

“ Mrs. Tibbs I Mrs. Tibbs I ” called out Mrs. Bloss. 
“ Mrs. Tibbs, pray get up.” (Here the imitation of a 
woodpecker was resumed with tenfold violence.) 

“ Oh, dear — dear 1 ” exclaimed the wretched partner 
of the depraved Tibbs. “ She’s knocking at my door. 
We must be discovered I What will they think ? ” 

“ Mrs. Tibbs I Mrs. Tibbs ! ” screamed the wood- 
pecker again. 


THE BOARDING-HOUSE. 


81 


^ Wliat’s the matter ! ” shouted Gobler, bursting out 
of the back drawing-room, like the dragon at Astlej’s. 

‘‘ Oh, Mr. Gobler ! ” cried Mrs. Bloss, with a proper 
approximation to hysterics ; “ I think the house is on 
fire, or else there’s thieves in it. I have heard the most 
dreadful noises ! ” 

The devil you have ! ” shouted Gobler again, bounc- 
ing back into his den, in happy imitation of the aforesaid 
dragon, and returning immediately with a lighted candle. 
“ Why, what’s this ? Wisbottle ! Tomkins ! G’Bleary ! 
Agnes ! What the deuce ! all up and dressed ? ” 

‘‘ Astonishing ! ” said Mrs. Bloss, Avho had rum down- 
stall’s, and taken Mr. Gobler’s arm. 

Call Mrs. Tibbs directly, somebody,” said Gobler, 
turning into the front drawing-room. “ What! Mrs. 
Tibbs and Mr. Evenson I I ” 

‘fMrs. Tibbs and Mr. Evenson I” repeated everybody, 
as that unhappy pair were discovered : Mrs. Tibbs seated 
in an arm-chair by the fireplace, and Mr. Evenson stand- 
ing by her side. 

We must leave the scene that ensued to the reader’s 
imagination. We could tell, how Mrs. Tibbs forthwith 
fainted away, and how it required the united strength of 
Mr. Wisbottle and Mr. Alfred Tomkins to hold her in 
her chair ; how Mr. Evenson explained, and how his ex- 
planation was evidently disbelieved ; how Agnes repelled 
the accusations of Mrs. Tibbs, by proving that she was 
negotiating with Mr. O’ Bleary to influence her mistress’s 
^’l^Fections in his behalf; and how Mr. Gobler threw a 
damp counterpane on the hopes of Mr. O’Bleary by 
avowing that he (Gobler) had already proposed to, and 
been accepted by, Mrs. Bloss ; how Agnes was discharged 
from that lady’s service ; how Mr. O’Bleary discharged 

VOL. II. 6 


82 


SKETCHES BY BOZ. 


himself from Mrs. Tibbs’s house, without going through 
the form of previously discharging his bill ; and how that 
disappointed young gentleman rails against England and 
the English, and vows there is no virtue or fine feeling 
extant, ‘‘except in Ireland.” We repeat that we could 
tell all this, but we love to exercise our self-denial, and 
we therefore prefer leaving it to be imagined. 

The lady whom we have hitherto described as Mrs. 
Bloss, is no more. Mrs. Gobler exists ; Mrs'. Bloss has 
left us forever. In a secluded retreat in Newington 
Butts, far. Tar, removed from the noisy strife of that 
great boarding-house, the world, the enviable Gobler and 
his pleasing wife revel in retirement ; happy in their com- 
plaints, their table, and their medicine ; wafted through 
life by the grateful prayers of all the purveyors of animal 
food within three miles round. 

We would willingly stop here, but we have a painful 
duty imposed upon us which we must discharge. Mr. 
and Mrs. Tibbs have separated by mutual consent, Mrs. 
Tibbs receiving one moiety of 43/. 15^. lOt/., which we 
before stated to be the amount of her husband’s annual 
income, and Mr Tibbs the other. He is spending the 
evening of his days in retirement ; and he is spending 
also, annually, that small but honorable independence. 
He resides among the original settlers at Walworth ; and 
it has been stated, on unquestionable authority, that the 
conclusion of the volunteeer story has been heard in a 
small tavern in that respectable neighborhood. 

The unfortunate Mrs. Tibbs has determined to dispose 
of the whole of her furniture by public auction, and to 
retire from a residence in which she has suffered so 
much. Mr. Robins has been applied to, to conduct the 
sale, and the transcendent abilities of the literary gentle- 


MR. MINNS AND HIS COUSIN. 


83 


man connected with his establishment are now devoted 
to the task of drawing up the preliminary advertisement. 
It is to contain, among a variety of brilliant matter, sev- 
enty-eight words in large capitals, and six original quota- 
tions in inverted commas. 


CHAPTER II. 

MR. MINNS AND HIS COUSIN. 

Mr. Augustus Minns was a bachelor, of about forty 
as he said — of about eight-and-forty as his friends said. 
He was always exceedingly clean, precise, and tidy ; per- 
haps somewhat priggish, and the most retiring man in the 
world. He usually wore a brown frock-coat without a 
wrinkle, light inexplicables without a spot, a neat neck- 
erchief with a remarkably neat tie, and boots without a 
fault ; moreover, he always carried a brown silk umbrella 
with an ivory handle. He was a clerk in Somerset 
House, or, as he said himself, he held “ a responsii)le 
situation under Government.” He had a good and in- 
creasing salary, in addition to some 10,000/. of his own 
(invested in the funds), and he occupied a first fioor in 
Tavistock Street, Covent Garden, where he had resided 
for tw^enty years, having been in the habit of quarrelling 
with his landlord the w^hole time : regularly giving notice 
of his intention to quit on the first day of every quarter, 
and as regularly countermanding it on the second. There 
w^ere tw^o classes of created objects wliich he held in the 
deepest and most unmingled horror ; these were dogs 


84 


SKETCFIES BY BOZ. 


and children. He was not unamiable, but he could, at 
any time, have viewed the execution of a dog, or the 
assassination of an infant, with the liveliest satisfaction. 
Their habits were at variance with his love of order ; 
and his love of order was as powerful as his love of life. 
Mr. Augustus Minns had no relations, in or near Lon- 
don, with the exception of his cousin, Mr. Octavius 
Budden, to whose son, whom he had never seen (for he 
disliked the father) he had consented to become godfather 
by proxy. Mr. Budden having realized a moderate for- 
tune by exercising the trade or calling of a corn-chandler, 
and having a great predilection for the country, had pur- 
chased a cottage in the vicinity of Stamford Hill, whither 
he retired with the wife of his bosom, and his only son. 
Master Alexander Augustus Budden. One evening, as 
Mr. and Mrs. B. were admii'ing their son, discussing his 
various merits, talking over his education, and disputing 
whether the classics should be made an essential part 
thereof, the lady pressed so strongly upon her husband 
the propriety of cultivating the friendship of Mr. Minns 
in behalf of their son, that Mr. Budden at last made up 
his mind, that it should not be his fault if he and his 
cousin were not in future more intimate. 

I’ll break the ice, my love,” said Mr. Budden, stir- 
ring up the sugar at the bottom of his glass of brandy- 
and-water, and casting a sidelong look at his spouse to 
see the etfect of the announcement of his determina- 
tion, ‘‘by asking Minns down to dine with us, on Sun- 
day.” 

“Then, pray Budden write to your cousin at once,” 
replied Mrs. Budden. “Who knows, if w^e could only 
get him down here, but he might take a fancy to our 


MR. MINNS AND HIS COUSIN. 


85 


Alexander, and leave him his property? — Alick, my 
dear, take your legs off the rail of the chair ! ’’ 

“ Very true,” said Mr. Budden, musing, “ very true, 
indeed, my love ! ” 

On the following morning, as Mr. Minns was sitting 
at his breakfast-table, alternately biting his dry toast, and 
casting a look upon the columns of his morning paper, 
which he always read from the title to the printer’s 
name, he heard a loud knock at the street-door ; which 
was shortly afterwards followed by the entrance of his 
servant, who put into his hand a particularly small card, 
on 'which was engraven in immense letters “Mr. Octavius 
Budden, Amelia Cottage, (Mrs. B.’s name was Amelia,) 
Poplar Walk, Stamford Hill.” 

“ Budden ! ” ejaculated Minns, “ what can bring that 
vulgar man here ! — say I’m asleep — - say Bm out, and 
shall never be home again — anything to keep him down- 
stairs.” 

“ But please, sir, the gentleman’s coming up,” replied 
the servant : and the fact was made evident by an appall- 
ing creaking of boots on the staircase accompanied by a 
pattering noise ; the cause of which, Minns could not, for 
the life of him, divine. 

“ Hem ! — show the gentleman in,” said the unfortu- 
nate bachelor. Exit servant, and enter Octavius pre- 
ceded by a large white dog, dressed in a suit of fleecy 
hosiery, with pink eyes, large ears, and no perceptible 
tail. 

The cause of the pattering on the stairs was but too 
plain. Mr. Augustus Minns staggered beneath the shock 
of the dog’s appearance. 

“ My dear fellow, how are you ? ” said Budden, as he 
entered. 


8G 


SKETCHES BY BOZ. 


He always spoke at the top of his voice, and always 
said the same thing half a dozen times. 

How are you, my hearty ? ” 

“ How do you do, Mr. Budden? — pray take a chair ! ’’ 
politely stammered the discomfited Minns. 

“ Thank you — thank you — well — how are you, eh ? ” 
“ Uncommonly well, thank you,” said Minns, casting a 
diabolical look at the dog, who, with his hind legs on the 
floor, and his fore paws resting on the table, was drag- 
ging a bit of bread and butter out of a plate preparatory 
to devouring it, with the buttered side next the carpet. 

“ Ah, you rogue ! ” said Budden to his dog ; “ you see, 
Minns, he’s like me, always at home, eh, my boy ? — 
Egad, I’m precious hot and hungry ! I’ve walked all the 
way from Stamford Hill this morning.” 

“ Have you breakfasted ? ” inquired Minns. 

“ Oh, no ! — came to breakfast with you ; so ring the 
bell, my dear fellow, will you? and let’s have another 
cup and saucer, and the cold ham. — Make myself at 
home you see ! ” continued Budden, dusting his boots 
with a table napkin. “ Ha ! — ha ! — ha ! — ’pon my 
life. I’m hungry.” 

Minns rang the bell and tried to smile. 

“ I decidedly never was so hot in my life,” continued 
Octavius, wiping his forehead : well, but how are you, 
Minns ? ’Pon my soul, you w^ear capitally ! ” 

“ D’ye think so ? ” said Minns ; and he tried another 
smile. 

’Pon my life, I do ! ” 

“ Mrs. B. and — what’s his name — quite well ? ” 

“ Alick — my son, you mean, never better — never 
better. But at such a place as we’ve got at Poplar 
Walk, you know, he couldn’t be ill if he tried. When 


MR. MINNS AND HIS COUSIN. 


87 


I first saw it, by Jove ! it looked so knowing, with the 
front garden, and the green railings, and the brass 
knocker, and all that — I really thought it was a cut 
above me.” 

‘‘ Don’t you think you’d like the ham better,” inter- 
rupted Minns, “ if you cut it the other way? ” He saw, 
with feelings which it is impossible to describe, that his 
visitor was cutting or rather maiming the ham, in utter 
violation of all established rules. 

“ No, thank ye,” returned Budden, with the most bar- 
barous indifference to crime, “ I . prefer it this way — it 
eats short. But I say Minns, when will you come down 
and see us ? You will be delighted with the place ; I 
know you will. Amelia and I were talking about you 
the other night, and Amelia said — another lump of 
sugar, please ; thank ye — she said, don’t you think you 
could contrive, my dear, to say to Mr. Minns, in a friend- 
ly way — come down, sir — damn the dog ! he’s spoiling 
your curtains, Minns — ha ! — ha ! — ha ! ” Minns leaped 
from his seat as though he had received the discharge 
from a galvanic battery. 

Come out, sir ! — go out, hoo ! ” cried poor Augustus, 
keeping nevertheless, at a very respectful distance from 
the dog ; having read of a case of hydrophobia in the 
paper of that morning. By dint of great exertion, much 
shouting, and a marvellous deal of poking under the 
tables with a stick and umbrella, the dog was at last 
dislodged, and placed on the landing outside the door, 
where he immediately commenced a most appalling howl- 
ing ; at the same time vehemently scratching the paint 
off* the two nicely varnished bottom panels, until they 
resembled the interior of a back-gammon board. 

A good dog for the country that ! ” coolly observed 


SKETCHES BY BOZ. 


B8 

Budden to the distracted Minns, “but he’s not much used 
to confinement. But now, Minns, when will you come 
down ? I’ll -take no denial, positively. Let’s see, to- 
day’s Thursday. — Will you come on Sunday ? We dine 
at five, don’t say no — do.” 

After a great deal of pressing, Mr. Augustus Minns, 
driven to despair, accepted the invitation and promised 
to be at Poplar Walk on the ensuing Sunday, at a quar- 
ter before five to the minute. 

“ Now mind the direction,” said Budden : “ the coach 
goes from the Flower Pot, in Bishopsgate Street, every 
half hour. When the coach stops at the Swan, you’ll 
see, immediately opposite you, a white house.” 

“ Which is your house — I understand,” said Minns, 
wishing to cut short the visit, and the story, at the same 
time. 

“ No, no, that’s not mine ; that’s Grogus’s, the great 
ironmonger’s. I was going to say — you turn down by 
the side of the white house till you can’t go another step 
further — mind that ! — and then you turn to your right, 
by some stables — well ; close to you, you’ll see a wall 
with ‘ Beware of the Dog ’ written on it in large letters 
— (Minns shuddered) — go along by the side of that 
wall for about a quarter of a mile — and anybody will 
show you which is my place.” 

“ Very well — thank ye — good-by.” 

“ Be punctual.” 

“ Certainly : good morning.” 

“ I say, Minns, you’ve got a card.” 

“ Yes, I have : thank ye.” And Mr. Octavius Bud- 
den departed, leaving his cousin looking forward to hi? 
visit of the following Sunday, with the feelings of a pen 
niless poet to the weekly visit of his Scotch landlady. 


MK. MINNS AND HIS COUSIN. 


89 


Sunday arrived; the sky was bright and clear; crowds 
of people were hurrying along the streets, intent on their 
difierent schemes of pleasure for the day ; everything 
and everybody looked cheerful and happy except Mr. 
Augustus Minns. 

The day was fine, but the heat was considerable ; when 
Mr. Minns had fagged up the shady side of Fleet. Street, 
Cheapside, and Threadneedle Street, he had become 
pretty warm, tolerably dusty, and it was getting late into 
the bargain. By the most extraordinary good fortune, 
however, a coach was waiting at the Flower Pot, into 
which Mr. Augustus Minns got, on the solemn assurance 
of the cad that the vehicle would start in three minutes 
— that being the very utmost extremity of time it was 
allowed to wait by Act of Parliament. A quarter of an 
hour elapsed, and there were no signs of moving. Minns 
looked at his watch for the sixth time. 

“ Coachman, are you going or not ? ” bawled Mr. 
Minns, with his head and half his body out of the 
coach-window. 

“ Di — rectly sir,” said the coachman, with his hands 
in his pockets, looking as much unlike a man in a hurry 
as possible. 

‘‘ Bill, take them clothes off.” Five minutes more 
elapsed ; at the end of which time the coachman mounted 
the box, from whence he looked down the street, and up 
the street, and hailed all the pedestrians for another five 
minutes. 

‘f Coachman ! if you don’t go this moment, I shall get 
out,” said Mr. Minns, rendered desperate by the lateness 
of the hour, and the impossibility of being in Poplar 
Walk at the appointed time. 

“ Going this minute, sir,” was the reply ; — and, ac- 


00 


SKETCHES BY BOZ. 


cordingly, the machine trundled on for a couple of hun- 
dred yards, and then stopped again. Minns doubled him- 
self up in a corner of the coach, and abandoned himself 
to his fate, as a child, a mother, a bandbox, and a parasol 
became his fellow-passengers. 

The child was an affectionate and an amiable infant ; 
the little dear mistook Minns for his other parent, and 
screamed to embrace him. 

Be quiet, dear,’’ said the mamma, restraining the 
impetuosity of the darling, whose little fat legs were 
kicking, and stamping, and twining themselves into the 
most complicated forms in an ecstasy of impatience. 
“ Be quiet, dear, that’s not your papa.” 

‘‘ Thank Heaven I am not ! ” thought Minns, as the 
first gleam of pleasure he had experienced that morning 
shone like a meteor through his wretchedness. 

Playfulness was agreeably mingled with affection in 
the disposition of the boy. When satisfied that Mr. 
Minns was not his parent, he endeavored to attract his 
notice by scraping his drab trousers with his dirty shoes, 
poking his chest with his mamma’s parasol, and other 
nameless endearments peculiar to infancy, with which he 
beguiled the tediousness of the ride, apparently very 
much to his own satisfaction. 

When the unfortunate gentleman arrived at the Swan, 
he found to his great dismay that it was a quarter past 
five. The white house, the stables, the Beware of the 
Dog,” — every landmark was passed with a rapidity not 
unusual to a gentleman of a certain age when too late 
for dinner. After the lapse of a few minutes, Mr. Minns 
found himself opposite a yellow brick house with a green 
door, brass knocker and door-plate, green window-frames 
and ditto railings, with a garden ” in front, that is to 


MR. MINNS AND HIS COUSIN. 


91 


say, a small loose bit of gravelled ground, with one round 
and two scalene triangular beds, containing a fir-tree, 
twenty or thirty bulbs, and an unlimited number of mari- 
golds. The taste of Mr. and Mrs. Budden was further 
displayed by the appearance of a Cupid on each side of 
the door, perched upon a heap of large chalk flints, varie- 
gated with pink conch-shells. His knock at the door was 
answered by a stumpy boy, in drab livery, cotton stock- 
ings, and high-lows, who, after hanging his hat on one of 
the dozen brass pegs which ornamented the passage, de- 
nominated by courtesy “ The Hall,” ushered him into a 
front drawing-room, commanding a very extensive view 
of the backs of the neighboring houses. The usual 
ceremony of introduction, and so forth, over, Mr. Minns 
took his seat : not a little agitated at finding that he was 
the last comer, and, somehow or other, the Lion of about 
a dozen people, sitting together in a small drawing-room, 
getting rid of that most tedious of all time, the time pre- 
ceding dinner. 

“ Well, Brogson,” said Budden, addressing an elderly 
gentleman in a black coat, drab knee-breeches, and long 
gaiters, who, under pretence of inspecting the prints in 
an Annual, had been engaged in satisfying himself on 
the subject of Mr. Minns’s general appearance, by look- 
ing at him over the tops of the leaves — “Well, Brog- 
son, what do Ministers mean to do ? Will they go out, 
or what ? ” 

“ Oh — why — really, you know, I’m the last person 
in the world to ask for news. Your cousin, from his 
situation, is the most likely person to answer the ques- 
tion.” 

Mr. Minns assured the last speaker, that although he 
was in Somerset House, he possessed no official commu- 


92 


SKETCHES BY BOZ. 


nication relative to the projects of his Majesty’s Minis- 
ters. But his remark was evidently received incredu- 
lously ; and no further conjectures being hazarded on the 
subject, a long pause ensued, during which the company 
occupied themselves in coughing and blowing their 
noses, until the entrance of Mrs. Budden caused a gen- 
eral rise. 

The ceremony of introduction being over, dinner was 
announced, and down-stairs the party proceeded accord- 
ingly — Mr. Minns escorting Mrs. Budden as far as the 
drawing-room door, but being prevented, by the narrow- 
ness of the staircase, from extending his gallantry any 
farther. The dinner passed off as such dinners usually 
do. Ever and anon, amidst the clatter of knives and 
forks, and the hum of conversation, Mr. B.’s voice might 
be heard, asking a friend to take wine, and assuring him 
he was glad to see him ; and a great deal of by-play took 
[)lace between Mrs. B. and the servants, respecting the 
removal of the dishes, during which her countenance 
assumed all the variations of a weather-glass, from 
“ stormy ” to “ set fair.” 

Upon the dessert and wine being placed on the table, 
the servant, in compliance with a significant look from 
Mrs. B., brought down “ Master Alexander,” habited in 
a sky-blue suit with silver buttons ; and possessing hai: 
of nearly the same color as the metal. After sundry 
praises from his mother, and various admonitions as to 
his behavior from his father, he was introduced to his 
godfather. 

“Well, my little fellow — you are a fine boy, a’n’t 
you ? ” said Mr. Minns, as happy as a tomtit on bird- 
lime. 

“ Yes.” 


MR. MINNS AND HIS COUSIN. 


93 


‘‘ How old are von ? ” 

“ Eight, next We’nsday. How old are youV 

“ Alexander,” interrupted his mother, “ how dare you 
ask Mr. Minns how old he is ! ” 

He asked me how old I was,” said the precocious 
child, to whom Minns had from that moment internally 
resolved that he never would bequeath one shilling. As 
soon as the titter occasioned by the observation had sub- 
sided, a little smirking man with red whiskers, sitting at 
the bottom of the table, v>dio during the whole dinner had 
been endeavoring to obtain a listener to some stories 
about Sheridan, called out, with a very patronizing air 
— “ Alick, what part of speech is heV' 

“ A verb.” 

“That’s a good boy,” said Mrs. Budden with all a 
mother’s pride. “ Now, you know what a verb is ? ” 

“ A verb is a word which signifies to be, to do, or to 
sufier ; as, I am — I rule — I am ruled. Give me an 
apple, Ma.” 

“ I’ll give you an apple,” replied the man with the red 
whiskers, who was an established friend of the family, 
or in other words was always invited by Mrs. Budden, 
whether Mr. Budden liked it or not, “ if you’ll tell me 
what is the meaning of Je.” 

“ Be ? ” said the prodigy, after a little hesitation — 
“ an insect that gathers honey.” 

“ No, dear,” frowned Mrs. Budden ; “ B double E is 
the substantive.” 

“ I don’t think he knows much yet about common sub- 
stantives,” said the smirking gentleman, who thought this 
an admirable opportunity for letting off a joke. “ It’s 
clear he’s not very well acquainted with proper names. 
He ! He ! He ! ” 


94 


SKETCHES BY BOZ. 


Gentlemen,” called out Mr. Budden, from the end of 
the table, in a stentorian voice, and with a very impor- 
tant air, “ will you have the goodness to charge youi 
glasses ? I have a toast to propose.” 

“ Hear ! hear ! ” cried the gentlemen, passing tlie de- 
canters. After they had made the round of the table, 
Mr. Budden proceeded — “ Gentlemen ; there is an indi- 
vidual present — ” 

“ Hear ! hear ! ” said the little man with red whis- 
kers. 

“ Pray be quiet, Jones,” remonstrated Budden. 

“ I say, gentlemen, there is an individual present,” 
resumed the host, “ in whose society, I am sure we must 
take great delight — and — and — the conversation of that 
individual must have afforded to every one present the 
utmost pleasure.” [“ Thank Heaven, he does not mean 
me ! ” thought Minns, conscious that his diffidence and 
exclusiveness had prevented his saying above a dozen 
words since he entered the house.] “ Gentlemen, I am 
but a humble individual myself, and I perhaps ought to 
apologize for allowing any individual feelings of friend- 
ship and affection for the person I allude to, to induce 
me to venture to rise, to propose the health of that per- 
son — a person that I am sure — that is to say, a person 
whose virtues must endear him to those who know him 
— and those who have not the pleasure of knowing him, 
cannot dislike him.” 

‘‘ Hear ! hear ! ” said the company, in a tone of en- , 
coiiragement and approval. 

“ Gentlemen,” continued Budden, “ my cousin is a man 
who — who is a relation of my own.” (Hear! hear!) 
JMinns groaned audibly. “ Who I am most happy to see 
here, and who, if he were not here, would certainly have 


MR. MINNS AND HIS COUSIN. 


95 


deprived us of the great pleasure we all feel in seeing 
him. (Loud cries of hear !) Gentlemen, I feel that I 
have already trespassed on your attention for too long a 
time. With every feeling — of — with every sentiment 
of — of — ” 

“ Gratification ” — suggested the friend of the family. 

“ — Of gratification, I beg to propose the health of 
Mr. Minns.” 

“ Standing, gentlemen ! ” shouted the indefatigable little 
man with the whiskers — “ and with the honors. Take 
your time from me, if you please. Hip ! hip ! hip ! — 
Za ! — Hip ! hip ! hip ! — Za ! — Hip ! hip ! — Za — a 
— a!” 

All eyes were now fixed on the subject of the toast, 
who by gulping down port-wine at the imminent hazard 
of suffocation, endeavored to conceal his confusion. 
After as long a pause as decency would admit, he rose, 
but, as the newspapers sometimes say in their reports, 
“ we regret that we were quite unable to give even the sub- 
stance of the honorable gentleman’s observations.” The 
words ‘‘ present company — honor — present occasion,” 
and “ great happiness ” — heard occasionally, and repeat- 
ed at intervals, with a countenance expressive of the 
utm.ost confusion and misery, convinced the company that 
he was making an excellent speech ; and, accordingly, 
on his resuming his seat, they cried “ Bravo ! ” and mani- 
fested tumultuous applause. Jones, who had been long 
watching his opportunity, then darted up. 

“ Budden,” said he, “will you allow me to propose a 
toast ? ” 

“ Certainly,” replied Budden, adding in an undertone 
to Minns right across the table. “ Devilish sharp fellow 
that : you’ll be very much pleased with his speech. He 


SKETCHES BY BOZ. 


DG 

talks equally well on any subject.” Minns bowed, and 
Mr. Jones proceeded : — 

“ It has on several occasions, in various instances, un- 
der many circumstances, and in different companies, fallen 
to my lot to propose a toast to those by whom, at the 
time, I have had the honor to be surrounded. I have 
sometimes, I will cheerfully own — for why should I 
deny it ? — felt the overwhelming nature of the task I 
have undertaken, and my own utter incapability to do 
justice to the subject. If such have been my feelings, 
however, on former occasions, what must they be now — 
now — under the extraordinary circumstances in which 
I am placed. (Hear ! hear !) To describe my feelings 
accurately, would be impossible ; but I cannot give you 
a better idea of them, gentlemen, than by referring to a 
circumstance which happens, oddly enough, to occur to 
my mind at the moment. On one occasion, when that 
truly great and illustrious man, Sheridan, was — ” 

Now, there is no knowing what new villany in the 
form of a joke would have been heaped on the grave of 
that very ill-used man, Mr. Sheridan, if the boy in drab 
had not at that moment entered the room in a breathless 
state, to report that, as it was a very wet night, the nine 
o’clock stage had come round, to know whether there 
was anybody going to town, as, in that case, he (the nine 
o’clock) had room for one inside. 

Mr. Minns started up ; and, despite countless exclama- 
tions of surprise, and entreaties to stajq persisted in his 
determination to accept the vacant place. But the brown 
silk umbrella was nowhere to be found ; and as the coach- 
man couldn’t wait, he drove back to the Swan, leaving 
word for Mr. Minns to ‘H’un round” and catch him. 
However, as it did not occur to Mr. Minns for some ten 


SENTIMENT. 


97 


minutes or so, that he had left the brown silk umbrella 
with the ivory handle in the other coach, coming down ; 
and, moreover, as he was by no means remarkable for 
speed, it is no matter of surprise that when he accom- 
plished the feat of “running round” to the Swan, the 
coach — the last coach — had gone without him. 

It was somewhere about three o’clock in the morning, 
when Mr. Augustus Minns knocked feebly at the street- 
door of his lodgings in Tavistock Street, cold, wet, cross, 
and miserable. He made his will next morning, and his 
professional man informs us, in that strict confidence in 
which we inform the public, that neither the name of Mr. 
Octavius Budden, nor of Mrs. Amelia Budden, nor of 
Master Alexander Augustus Budden, appears therein. 


CHAPTER III. 

SENTIMENT. 

The Miss Crumptons, or to quote the authority of the 
inscription on the garden-gate of Minerva House, Ham- 
mersmith, “ The Misses Crumpton,” were two unusually 
tall, particularly thin, and exceedingly skinny person- 
ages ; very upright, and very yellow. Miss Amelia 
Crumpton owned to thirty - eight, and Miss Maria 
Crumpton admitted she was forty ; an admission which 
was rendered perfectly unnecessary by the self-evident 
fact of her being at least fifty. They dressed in the 
most interesting manner — like twins ; and looked as 
happy and comfortable as a couple of marigolds run to 

VOL. II. 7 


08 


SKETCHES BY BOZ. 


seed. They were very precise, had the strictest possible 
ideas of propriety, wore false hair, and always smelt very 
strongly of lavender. 

Minerva House, conducted under the auspices of the 
two sisters, was a ‘^finishing establishment for young 
ladies, where some twenty girls of the ages of from thir- 
teen to nineteen inclusive, acquired a smattering of 
everything, and a knowledge of nothing ; instruction in 
French and Italian, dancing-lessons twice a week ; and 
other necessaries of life. The house was a white one, a 
little removed from the roadside, with close palings in 
front. The bedroom windows were always left partly 
open, to afford a bird’s-eye view of numerous little bed- 
steads with very white dimity furniture, and thereby im- 
press the passer-by with a due sense of the luxuries of 
the establishment; and there was a front parlor hung 
round with highly varnished maps which nobody ever 
looked at, and filled with books which no one ever read, 
appropriated exclusively to the reception of parents, who, 
whenever they called, could not fail to be struck with the 
very deep appearance of the place. 

“ Amelia, my dear,” said Miss Maria Crumpton, enter- 
ing the school-room one morning, with her false hair in 
papers : as she occasionally did, in order to impress the 
young ladies with a conviction of its reality. “ Amelia, 
my dear, here is a most gratifying note I have just re- 
ceived. You needn’t mind reading it aloud.” 

Miss Amelia, thus advised, proceeded to read the fol- 
lowing note with an air of great triumph : — 

“ Cornelius Brook Dingwall, Esq., M. P., presents his 
compliments to Miss Crumpton, and will feel much 
obliged by Miss Crumpton’s calling on him, if she con- 


SENTIMENT. 


99 


veiiiently can, to-morrow morning at one o’clock, as Cor- 
nelius Brook Dingwall, Esq., M. P., is anxious to see 
Miss Crumpton on the subject of placing Miss Brook 
Dingwall under her charge. 

“ Adelphi. 

“ Monday morning.” 

“ A Member of Parliament’s daughter ! ” ejaculated 
Amelia, in an ecstatic tone. 

“ A Member of Parliament’s daughter ! ” repeated Miss 
Maria, with a smile of delight, which, of course, elicited 
a concurrent titter of pleasure from all the young ladies. 

It’s exceedingly delightful ! ” said Miss Amelia ; 
whereupon all the young ladies murmured their admira- 
tion again. Courtiers are but school-boys, and court- 
ladies school-girls. 

So important an announcement at once superseded the 
business of the day. A holiday was declared, in com- 
memoration of the great event ; the Miss Crumptons 
retired to their private apartment to talk it over ; the 
smaller girls discussed the probable manners and customs 
of the daughter of a Member of Parliament ; and the 
young ladies verging on eighteen wondered whether she 
was engaged, whether she was pretty, whether she wore 
much bustle, and many other whethers of equal impor- 
tance. 

The two Miss Crumptons proceeded to the Adelphi at 
the appointed time next day, dressed, of course, in their 
best Style, and looking as amiable as they possibly could 
— which, by the by, is not saying much for them. Hav- 
ing sent in their cards, through the medium of a red-hot 
looking footman in bright livery, they were ushered into 
the august presence of the profound Dingwall. 


100 


SKETCHES BY BOZ. 


Cornelius Brook Dingwall, Esq., M. P., was very 
haughty, solemn, and portentous. He liad, naturally, a 
somewhat spasmodic expression of countenance, which 
was not rendered the less remarkable by his wearing an 
extremely stiff cravat. He was wonderfully proud of 
the M. P. attached to his name, and never lost an oppoi'- 
tunity of reminding people of his dignity. He had a 
great idea of his own abilities, which must have been a 
great comfort to him, as no one else had ; and in di- 
plomacy, on a small scale, in his own family arrange- 
ments, he considered himself unrivalled. He was a 
county magistrate, and discharged the duties of his sta 
tion with all due justice and impartiality; frequently 
committing poachers, and occasionally committing him 
self. Miss Brook Dingwall was one of that numerous 
class of young ladies, who, like adverbs, may be known 
by their answering to a commonplace question, and 
doing: nothing^ else. 

On the present occasion, this talented individual was 
seated in a small library at a table covered with papers, 
doing nothing, but trying to look busy — playing at shop. 
Acts of Parliament, and letters directed to “ Cornelius 
Brook Dingwall, Esq., M. P.,” were ostentatiously scat- 
tei'ed over the table ; at a little distance from which, 
Mrs. Brook Dingwall was seated at work. One of those 
public nuisances, a spoiled child, was playing about the 
room, dressed after the most approved fashion — in a 
blue tunic with a black belt a quarter of a yard wide, 
fastened with an immense buckle — looking like a robber 
in a melodrama, seen through a dinainishing glass. 

After a little pleasantry from the sweet' child, who 
amused himself by running away with Miss Marla 
Crumpton’s chair as fast as it was placed for her, the 


SEN^HMENT. 


101 


visitors were seated, and Cornelius Brook Dingwall, 
Esq., opened the conversation. 

He had sent for Miss Crumpton, he said, in conse- 
quence of the high character he had received of her 
establishment from his friend Sir Alfred Muggs. 

Miss Crumpton murmured her acknowledgments to 
him (Muggs), and Cornelius proceeded. 

‘‘ One of my principal reasons. Miss Crumpton, for 
parting with my daughter, is, that she has lately ac- 
quired some sentimental ideas, which it is most desirable 
to eradicate from her young mind.” (Here the little in- 
nocent before noticed fell out of an arm-chair with an 
awful crash.) 

“ Naughty boy ! ” said his mamma, who appeared more 
surprised at his taking the liberty of falling down, than at 
anything else ; “ I’ll ring the bell for James to take him 
away.” 

“ Pray don’t check him, my love,” said the diplomatist, 
as soon as he could make himself heard amidst the un- 
earthly howling consequent upon the threat and the 
tumble. It all arises from his great flow of spirits.” 
This last explanation was addressed to Miss Crumpton. 

‘‘ Certainly, sir,” replied the antique Maria : not exactly 
seeing, however, the connection between a flow of animal 
spirits and a fall from an arm-chair. . 

Silence was restored, and the M. P. resumed : “ Now, 
I know nothing so likely to effect this object, Miss 
Crumpton, as her mixing constantly in the society of 
girls of her own age ; and, as I know that in your estab- 
lishment she will meet such as are not likely to contami- 
nate her young mind, I propose to send her to you.” 

Tiie youngest Miss Crumpton expressed the acknowl- 
edgments of the establishment generally. Maria was 


J02 


SKETCHES BY BOZ. 


rendered speechless by bodily pain. The dear little fel 
low, having recovered his animal spirits, was standing 
upon her most tender foot, by way of getting his face 
(which looked like a capital O in a red-lettered play-bill) 
on a level with the writing-table. 

‘‘ Of course, Lavinia will be a parlor boarder,” con- 
tinued the enviable father ; “ and on one point I wish 
my directions to be strictly observed. The fact is, that 
some ridiculous love affair, with a person much her infe- 
rior in life, has been the causS of her present state of 
mind. Knowing that of course, under your care, she 
can have no opportunity of meeting this person, I do not 
object to — indeed, I should rather prefer — her mixing 
with such society as you see yourself.” 

This important statement was again interrupted by the 
high-spirited little creature, in the excess of his joyous- 
ness breaking a pane of glass, and nearly precipitating 
himself into an adjacent area. James was rung for ; 
considerable confusion and screaming succeeded ; two 
little blue legs were seen to kick violently in the air as 
the man left the room, and the child was gone. 

“ Mr. Brook Dingwall would like Miss Brook Ding- 
wall to learn everything,” said Mrs. Brook Dingwall, 
who hardly ever said anything at all. 

‘‘ Certainly,” said both the Miss Crumptons together. 

“ And as I trust the plan I have-devised will be effect- 
ual in weaning my daughter from this absurd idea, IVIiss 
Crumpton,” continued the legislator, “ I hope you will 
have the goodness to comply, in all respects, with any 
request I may forward to you.” 

The promise was of course made, and after a length- 
ened discussion, conducted on behalf of the Dingwalls 
with the most becoming diplomatic gravity, and on that 


SENTIMENT. 


103 


of the Crumptons with profound respect, it was finally 
arranged that Miss Lavinia should be forwarded to 
Hammersmith on the next day but one, on which occa- 
sion the half-yearly ball given at the establishment was 
to take place. It might divert the dear girl’s mind. 
This, by the way, was another bit of diplomacy. 

Miss Lavinia was introduced to her future governess, 
and both the Miss Crumptons pronounced her “ a most 
charming girl ; ” an opinion which, by a singular coinci- 
dence, they always entertained of any new pupil. 

Courtesies were exchanged, ackitowdedgments ex- 
pressed, condescension exhibited, and the interview 
terminated. 

Preparations, to make use of theatrical phraseology, 
“ on a scale of magnitude never before attempted,” were 
incessantly made at Minerva House to give every effect 
to the forthcoming ball. The largest room in the liouse 
was pleasingly ornamented with blue calico roses, plaid 
tulips, and other equally natural-looking artificial flowers, 
the work of the young ladies themselves. The carpet 
was taken up, the folding-doors were taken down, the 
f’urniture was taken out, and rout-seats were taken in. 
The linen-drapers of Hammersmith were astounded at 
the sudden demand for blue sarsenet ribbon, and long 
white gloves. Dozens of geraniums were purchased for 
bouquets, and a harp and two violins were bespoke from 
town, in addition to the grand piano already on the prem- 
ises. The young ladies who were selected to show off 
)n the occasion, and do credit to the establishment, prac- 
tised incessantly, much to their own satisfaction, and 
greatly to the annoyance of the lame old gentleman over 
the way ; and a constant correspondence was kept up, 
between the Misses Crumpton and the Hammersmith 
pastrycook. 


101 


SKETCHES BY BOZ. 


The evening came ; and then there was such a lacing 
of stays, and a tying of sandals, and dressing of hair, as 
never ^ can take place with a proper degree of bustle out 
of a boarding-school. The smaller girls managed to be 
in everybody’s way, and were pushed about accordingly ; 
and the elder ones dressed, and tied, and flattered, and 
envied, one another, as earnestly and sincerely as if they 
had actually come out. 

“ How do I look, dear ? ” inquired Miss Emily Smith- 
ers, the belle of the house, of Miss Caroline Wilson, who 
was her bosom friend, because she was the ugliest girl in 
Hammersmith, or out of it. 

“ Oh ! charming, dear. How do I ? ” 

“ Delightful ! you never looked so handsome,” returned 
the belle, adjusting her own dress, and not bestowing a 
glance on her poor companion. 

“ I hope young Hilton will come early,” said another 
young lady to Miss somebody else, in a fever of expecta- 
tion. 

“ I’m sure he’d be highly flattered if he knew it,” re- 
turned the other, who was practising VetL 

“ Oh ! he’s so handsome,” said the first. 

‘‘ Such a charming person ! ” added a second. 

“ Such a distingue air ; ” said a third. 

“ Oh, what do you think ? ” said another girl, running 
into the room ; Miss Crumpton says her cousin’s com- 
ing.” 

“ What ! Theodosius Butler ? ” said everybody in 
raptures. 

“ Is he handsome ? ” inquired a novice. 

“ No, not particularly handsome,” was the general 
reply ; “ but, oh, so clever ! ” 

Mr. Theodosius Butler was one of those immortal 


SENTIMENT. 


105 


geniuses who are to be met with, in almost every circle. 
They have, usuMlly, very deep monotonous voices. They 
always persuade themselves that they are wonderful per- 
sons, and that they ought to be very miserable, though 
they don’t precisely know wdiy. They are very con- 
ceited, and usually possess half an idea ; but, with en- 
thusiastic young ladies, and silly young gentlemen, they 
are very w^onderful persons. The individual in question, 
Mr. Theodosius, had written a pamphlet containing some 
very weighty considerations on the expediency of doing 
something or other ; and as every sentence contained a 
good many words of four syllables, his admirers took it 
for granted that he meant a good deal. 

“ Perhaps that’s he,” exclaimed several young ladies, 
as the first pull of the evening threatened destruction to 
the bell of the gate. 

An awful pause ensued. Some boxes arrived and a 
young lady — Miss Brook Dingwall, in full ball cos- 
tume, with an immense gold chain round her neck, and 
her dress looped up wdth a single rose ; an ivory fan in 
her hand, and a most interesting expression of despair in 
her face. 

The Miss Crumptons inquired after the family with 
the most excruciating anxiety, and Miss Brook Dingwall 
was formally introduced to her future companions. The 
Miss Crumptons conversed wi h the young ladies in the 
most mellifluous tones, in order that Miss Brook Ding- 
wall might be properly impressed with their amiable 
treatment. 

Another pull at the bell. Mr. Dadson the writing- 
master, and his wife. The wife in green silk, with shoes 
and cap-trimmings to correspond ; the writing-master in 
a white waistcoat, black knee-shorts, and ditto silk stocks 


lOG 


SKETCHES BY BOZ. 


ings, dis[jlayiiig a leg large enough for two writing-mas- 
ters. The young ladies whispered one another, and the 
writing-master and his wife flattered the Miss Crump- 
tons, who were dressed in amber, with long saslies, like 
dolls. 

Repeated pulls at the bell, and arrivals too numerous 
to particularize : papas and mammas, and aunts and un- 
cles, the owners and guardians of the different pupils ; 
the singing-master, Signor Lobskini,’ in a black wig ; the 
piano-forte player and the violins ; the harp, in a state of 
intoxication ; and some twenty young men, who stood 
near the door, and talked to one another, occasionally 
bursting into a giggle. A general hum of conversation. 
Coffee handed round, and plentifully partaken of by fat 
mammas, who looked like the stout people who come on’ 
in pantomimes for the sole purpose of being knocked 
down. 

The popular Mr. Hilton was the next arrival ; and he 
having, at the request of the Miss Crumptons, under- 
taken the ofiice of Master of the Ceremonies, the qua- 
(!rilles commenced with considerable spirit. The young 
men by the door gradually advanced into the middle of 
the room, and in time became sufficiently at ease to con- 
sent to be introduced to partners. The writing-master 
danced every set, springing about with the most fearful 
agility, and his wife played a rubber in the back-parlor 
— a little room with five book-shelves, dignified by the 
name of the study. Setting her down to whist was a 
half-yearly piece of generalship on the part of the Miss 
Crumptons ; it was necessary to hide her somewhere, on 
account of her being a fright. 

The interesting Lavinia Brook Dingwall was the only 
gil l present, who appeared to take no interest in the pro- 


SENTIMENT. 


107 


ceedings of the evening. In vain was she solicited to 
dance ; in vain was the universal homage paid to her as 
the daughter of a member of parliament. She was 
equally unmoved by the splendid tenor of the inimitable 
Lobskini, and the brilliant execution of Miss Lsetitia 
Parsons, whose performance of “ The Recollections of 
Ireland was universally declared to be. almost equal to 
that of Moscheles himself. Not even the announcement 
of the arrival of Mr. Theodosius Butler could induce her 
to leave the corner of the back drawing-room in which 
she was seated. 

“Now, Theodosius,” said Miss Maria Crumpton, after 
that enlightened pamphleteer had nearly run the gaunt- 
let of the whole company, “ I must introduce you to our 
new pupil.” 

Theodosius looked as if he cared for nothing earthly. 

“ She’s the daughter of a member of parliament,” said 
Maria. — Theodosius started. 

“ And her name is — ? ” he inquired. 

“ Miss Brook Dingwall.” 

“ Great Heaven ! ” poetically exclaimed Theodosius, in 
a low tone. 

Miss Crumpton commenced the introduction in due 
form. Miss Brook Dingwall languidly raised her 
head. 

“ Edward ! ” she exclaimed, with a half-shriek, on see- 
ing the well-known nankeen legs. 

Fortunately, as Miss Maria Crumpton possessed no 
reinarkable share of penetration, and as it was one of the 
diplomatic arrangements that no attention was to be paid 
to Miss Lavinia’s incoherent exclamations, she was per- 
fectly unconscious of the mutual agitation of the parties ; 
and therefore, seeing that the offer of his hand for the 


108 


SKETCHES BY BOZ. 


next quadrille, was accepted, she left him by the side of 
Miss Brook Dingwall. 

“ Oh, Edward ! ” exclaimed that most romantic of all 
romantic young ladies, as the light of science seated 
himself beside her, “ Oh, Edward, is it you ? ’’ 

IVIr. Theodosius assured the dear creature, in the most 
impassioned manner, that he was not conscious of being 
anybody but himself. 

“ Then why — why — this disguise ? Oh ! Edward 
M’Neville Walter, what have I not suffered on your 
account ? ” 

“ Lavinia, hear me,’’ replied the hero, in his most poetic 
s'rain. “ Do not condemn me, unheard. If anything 
that emanates from the soul of such a wretch as I, can 
occupy a place in your recollection — if any being, so 
vile, deserve your notice — you may remember that I 
once published a pamphlet (and paid for its publication) 
entitled ‘ Considerations on the Policy of Removing the 
Duty on Beeswax.’ ” 

‘‘ I do — I do ! ” sobbed Lavinia. 

‘‘ That,” continued the lover, “ was a subject to which 
your father was devoted heart and soul.” 

‘‘ He was — he was ! ” reiterated the sentimentalist. 

“ I knew it,” continued Theodosius, tragically ; “ I 
knew it — I forwarded him a copy. He wished to know 
me. Could I disclose my real name ? Never ! No, I 
assumed that name which you have so often pronounced 
in tones of endearment. As M’Neville Walter, I devoted 
myself to the stirring cause ; as M’Neville Walter, I 
gained your heart ; in the same character I was ejected 
from your house by your father’s domestics ; and in no 
character at all have I since been enabled to see you. 
We now meet again, and I proudly own that I am — 
Theodosius Butler.” 


SENTIMENT. 


109 


The young lady appeared perfectly satisfied with this 
argumentative address, and bestowed a look of the most 
ardent affection on tlie immortal advocate of beeswax. 

“ May I hope,'’ said he, “ that the promise your father’s 
violent behavior interrupted, may be renewed ? ” 

Let us join this set,” replied Lavinia, coquettishly 
— for girls of nineteen can coquet. 

No,” ejaculated he of the nankeens ; “ I stir not from 
this spot, writhing under this torture of suspense. May 
I — may I — hope ? ” 

You may.’’ 

The promise is renewed ? ” 

It is.” 

“ I have your permission ? ” 

“ You have.” 

“To the fullest extent ? ” 

“ You know it,” returned the blushing Lavinia. The 
contortions of the interesting Butler’s visage expressed 
his raptures. 

We could dilate upon the occurrences that ensued. 
How Mr. Theodosius and Miss Lavinia danced, and 
talked, and sighed for the remainder of the evening — 
how the Miss Crumptons were delighted thereat. How 
the writing-master continued to frisk about with one- 
horse power, and how his wife, from some unaccountable 
freak, left the whist-table in the little back-parlor, and 
persisted in displaying her green head-dress in the most 
conspicuous part of the drawing-room. How the suppei- 
consisted of small triangular sandwiches in trays, and a 
tart here and there by way of variety ; and how the visit- 
ors consumed warm water disguised with lemon, and dotted 
with nutmeg, under the denomination of negus. These, 
and other matters of as much interest, however, we pass 


JIO 


SKETCHES BY BOZ. 


over, for the purpose of describing a scene of even more 
importance. 

A fortnight after the date of the ball, Cornelius Brook 
Dingwall, Esq., M. P., was seated at the same library 
table, and in the same room, as we have before described. 
He was alone, and his face bore an expression of deep 
^bought and solemn gravity — he was drawing up “ A 
Bill for the better observance of Easter Monday.” 

The footman tapped at the door — the legislator started 
from his reverie, and Miss Crumpton ” was announced. 
Permission w^as given for Miss Crumpton to enter the 
sanctum; Maria came sliding in, and having taken her 
seat with a due portion of affectation, the footman retired, 
and the governess was left alone with the M. P. Oh ; 
how she longed for the presence of a third party ! Even 
the facetious young gentleman would have been a relief. 

Miss Crumpton began the duet. She hoped Mrs. 
Brook Dingwall and the handsome little boy were in 
good health. 

They were. Mrs. Brook Dingwall and little F rederick 
were at Brighton. 

“ Much obliged to you. Miss Crumpton,” said Corne- 
lius, in his most dignified manner, “ for your attention in 
calling this morning. I should have driven down to 
Hammersmith, to see Lavinia, but your account was so 
very satisfactory, and my duties in the House occupy me 
so much, that I determined to postpone it for a week. 
How has she gone on ? ” 

“ Very well indeed, sir,” returned Maria, dreading to 
inform the father that she had gone off. 

“ Ah, I thought the plan on which I proceeded would 
be a match for her.” 

Hei e was a favorable opportunity to say that some- 


SENTIMENT. 


Ill 


body else had been a match for her. But the unfortunate 
governess was unequal to the task. 

“ You have persevered strictly in the line of conduct 
I prescribed, Miss Crumpton ? ” 

“ Strictly, sir.” 

“ You tell me in your note that her spirits gradually 
improved.” 

“ Very much indeed, sir.” 

“ To be sure. I was convinced they would.” 

“ But I fear, sir,” said Miss Crumpton, with visible 
emotion, “ I fear the plan has not succeeded quite so 
well as we could have wished.” 

“ No ! ” exclaimed the prophet. “ Bless me ! Miss 
Crumpton, you look alarmed. What has happened ? ” 

“ Miss Brook Dingwall, sir — ” 

‘‘ Yes, ma’am ? ” 

“ Has gone, sir ” — said Maria, exhibiting a strong in- 
clination to faint. 

Gone ! ” 

“ Eloped, sir.” 

Eloped ! — Who with — when — where — how ? ” 
almost shrieked the agitated diplomatist. 

The natural yellow of the unfortunate Maria’s face 
changed to all the hues of the rainbow, as she laid a 
small packet on the member’s table. 

He hurriedly opened it. A letter from his daughter, 
and another Irom Theodosius. He glanced over their 
contents — “ Ere this reaches you, far distant — appeal 
to feelings — love to distraction — beeswax — slavery,” 
&c., &c. He dashed his hand to his forehead, and paced 
the room with fearfully long strides, to the great alarm 
of the precise Maria. 

‘‘ Now mind ; fj'om this time forward,” said Mr. Brook 


112 


SKETCHES BY BOZ. 


Dingwall, suddenly stopping at the table, and beatin^ 
tiine upon it with his hand ; “from this time forward, I 
never will, under any circumstances whatever, permit a 
man who writes pamphlets to enter any other room of 
this house but the kitchen. — I’ll allow my daughter and 
her husband one hundred and fifty pounds a-year, and 
’never see their faces again; and, damme! ma’am, I’ll 
'living in a bill for the abolition of finishing-schools 1” 

Some time has elapsed since this passionate declara- 
tion. Mr. and Mrs. Butler are at present rusticating in 
a small cottage at Ball’s Pond, pleasantly situated in the 
immediate vicinity of a brick-field. The}^ have ho 
family. Mr. Theodosius looks very important, and 
writes incessantly ; but, in consequence of a gross com- 
bination on the part of publishers, none of his produc- 
tions appear in print. His young wife begins to think 
that ideal misery is preferable to real unhappiness ; and 
that a marriage, contracted in haste, and repented at 
leisure, is the cause of more substantial wretchedness 
than she ever anticipated. 

On cool reflection, Cornelius Brook Dingwall, Esq., 
M. P., was reluctantly compelled to admit that the un- 
toward result of his admirable arrangements was attribu- 
table, not to the Miss Crumptons, but his own diplomacy, 
lie however consoles himself, like some other small 
diplomatists, by satisfactorily proving that if his plans 
did not succeed, they ohght to have done so. Minerva 
House is in stotii quo, and “ The Misses Crumpton ” re- 
main in the peaceable and undisturbed enjoyment of all 
the advantages resulting from their Finishing-School. 

o o o 


THE TUGGS’S AT KAMSGATE. 


113 


CHAPTEE IV. 

THE TUGGS’S AT RAMSGATE. 

Once upon a time, there dwelt, in a narrow street on 
the Surrey side of the water, within three minutes’ walk 
of old London Bridge, Mr. Joseph Tuggs — a little 
dark-faced man, with shiny hair, twinkling eyes, short 
legs, and a body of very considerable thickness, measur- 
ing from the centre button of his waistcoat in front, to 
the ornamental buttons of his coat behind. The figure 
of the amiable Mrs. Tuggs, if not perfectly symmetrical, 
was decidedly comfortable ; and the form of her only 
daughter, the accomplished Miss Charlotte Tuggs, was 
fast ripening into that state of luxuriant plumpness 
which had enchanted the eyes, and captivated the heart, 
of Mr. Joseph Tuggs in his earlier days. Mr. Simon 
Tuggs, his only son, and Miss Charlotte Tuggs’s only 
brother, was as differently formed in body, as he was 
differently constituted in mind, from the remainder of 
his family. There was that elongation in his thoughtful 
face, and that tendency to weakness in his interesting 
legs, which tell so forcibly of a great mind and romantic 
disposition. The slightest traits of character in such a 
being possess no mean interest to speculative minds. He 
usually appeared in public, in capacious shoes with 
black cotton stockings ; and was observed to be particu- 
larly attached to a black glazed stock, • without tie or 
ornament of any description. 

There is, perhaps, no profession, how^ever useful ; no 
8 


VOL. II. 


114 


SKETCHES BY BOZ. 


pursuit, however meritorious ; which cau escape the 
petty attacks of vulgar minds. Mr. Joseph Tuggs was 
a grocer. It might be supposed that a grocer was be- 
yond the breath of calumny ; but no — the neighbors 
stigmatized him as a chandler ; and the poisonous voice 
of envy distinctly asserted that he dispensed tea and 
coffee by the quartern, retailed sugar by the ounce, 
cheese by the slice, tobacco by the screw, and butter by 
the pat. These taunts, however, were lost upon the 
Tuggs’s. Mr. Tuggs attended to the grocery depart- 
ment; Mrs. Tuggs to the cheesemongery ; and Miss 
Tuggs to her education. Mr. Simon Tuggs kept his 
father’s books, and his own counsel. 

One fine spring afternoon, the latter gentleman was 
seated on a tub of weekly Dorset, behind the little red 
desk with a wooden rail, which ornamented a corner of 
the counter ; when a stranger dismounted from a cab, 
and hastily entered the shop. He was habited in black 
cloth, and bore with him a green umbrella, and a blue 
bag. 

“Mr. Tuggs?” said the stranger, inquiringly, 
name is Tuggs,” replied Mr. Simon. 

“ It’s the other Mr. Tuggs,” said the stranger, looking 
towards the glass door which led into the parlor behind 
the shop, and on the inside of which, the round face of 
Mr. Tuggs, senior, was distinctly visible, peeping over 
the curtain. 

Mr. Simon gracefully waved his pen, as if in intima- 
tion of his wish that his father would advance. Mr. 
Joseph Tuggs, with considerable celerity, removed his 
face from the curtain, and placed it before the stranger. 

“I come from the Temple,” said the man with the 
bag. 


THE TUGGS’S AT RAMSGATE. 


115 


“ From the Temple ! ” said Mrs. Tuggs, flinging open 
the door of the little parlor and disclosing Miss Tuggs 
in perspective. 

“ From the Temple ! ” said Miss Tuggs and Mr. Simon 
Tuggs at the same moment. 

‘‘From the Temple!” said Mr. Joseph Tuggs, turn- 
ing as pale as a Dutch cheese. 

“ From the Temple,” repeated the man with the bag ; 
“ from Mr. Gower’s, the solicitor’s. Mr. Tuggs, I con- 
gratulate you, sir. Ladies, I wish you joy of your pros- 
perity ! We have been successful.” And the man with 
the bag leisurely divested himself of his umbrella and 
glove, as a preliminary to shaking hands with Mr. Joseph 
Tuggs. 

Now the words “ we have been successful ” had no 
sooner issued from the mouth of the man with the bag, 
tlian Mr. Simon Tuggs rose from the tub of weekly Dor- 
set, opened his eyes very wide, gasped for breath, made 
figures of eight in the air with his pen, and finally fell 
into the arms of his anxious mother, and fainted away, 
without the slightest ostensible cause or pretence. 

“ Water I” screamed Mrs. Tuggs. 

“ Look up, my son,” exclaimed Mr. Tuggs. 

“Simon I dear Simon 1 ” shrieked Miss Tuggs. 

“ I’m better now,” said Mr. Simon Tuggs. “ What ! 
successful ! ” And then, as corroborative evidence of 
his being better, he fainted away again, and was borne 
into the little parlor by the united efforts of the remain- 
der of the family, and the man with the bag. 

To a casual spectator, or to any one unacquainted with 
the position of the family, this fainting would have been 
unaccountable. To those who understood the mission of 
the man with the bag, and were moreover acquainted 


116 


SKETCHES BY BOZ. 


witli ti.e excitability of the nerves of Mr. Simon Tuggis 
it was quite comprehensible. A long-pending lawsuit 
respecting the validity of a will, had been unexpectedly 
decided ; and Mr. Joseph Tuggs was the possessor of 
twenty thousand pounds. 

A prolonged consultation took place that night, in the 
little parlor — a consultation that was to settle the future 
destinies of the Tuggs’s. The shop was shut up at an 
unusually early hour ; and many were the unavailing 
kicks bestowed upon the closed door by applicants for 
quarterns of sugar, or half-quarterns of bread, or penn’- 
orths of pepper, which were to have been “ left till Sat- 
urday,” but which fortune had decreed were to be left 
alone altogether. 

“ We must certainly give up business,” said Miss 
Tuggs. 

“ Oh, decidedly,” said Mrs. Tuggs. 

‘‘ Simon shall go to the bar,” said Mr. Joseph Tuggs. 

“ And I shall always sign myself ‘ Cymon ’ in future,” 
said his son. 

And I shall call myself Charlotta,” said Miss Tuggs. 

“ And you must always call me ‘ Ma,’ and father ‘ Pa,’ ” 
said Mrs. Tuo-^s. 

“Yes, and Pa must leave off all his vulgar habits,” 
interposed Miss Tuggs. 

“I’ll take care of all that,” responded Mr. eloseph 
Tuggs, complacently. He was, at that very moment, 
eating pickled salmon with a pocket-knife. 

“ We must leave town immediately/’ said Mr. Cymon 
Tuggs. 

Everybody concurred that this was an indispensable 
preliminary to being genteel. The question then arose. 
Where should they go ? 


THE TUGGS’S AT RAMSGATE. 


117 


“ Gravesend ? ” mildly suggested Mr. Joseph Tuggs. 
The idea was unanimously scouted. Gravesend was 
low, 

“Margate ? ” insinuated Mrs. Tuggs. Worse and 
worse — nobody there, but tradespeople. 

“ Brighton ? ” Mr. Cymon Tuggs opposed an insur- 
mountable objection. All the coaches had been upset, 
in turn, within the last three weeks ; each coach had 
averaged two passengers killed, and six wounded ; and, 
in every case, the newspapers had distinctly understood 
that “ no blame whatever was attributable to the coach- 
man.’’ 

“ Ramsgate ? ” ejaculated Mr. Cymon, thoughtfully. 
To be sure : how stupid they must have been, not to 
have thought of that before ! Ramsgate was just the 
place of all others. 

Two months after this conversation, the City of Lon- 
don Ramsgate steamer was running gayly down the 
river. Her flag was flying, her band was playing, her 
passengers were conversing ; everything about her seemed 
gay and lively. — No wonder — the Tuggs’s were on 
board. 

“ Charming, a’n’t it ? ” said Mr. Joseph Tuggs, in a 
bottle-green great-coat, with a velvet collar of the same, 
and a blue travelling-cap with a gold band. 

“ Soul-inspiring,” replied Mr. Cymon Tuggs — he was 
entered at the bar. “ Soul-inspiring ! ” 

“ Delightful morning, sir ! ” said a stoutish, military- 
looking gentleman in a blue surtout buttoned up to his 
chin, and white trousers chained down to the soles of his 
boots. 

Mr. Cymon Tuggs took upon himself the responsi- 
bility of answering the observation. “ Heavenly ! ” he 
replied. 


118 


SKETCHES BY BOZ. 


“ You are an (‘iithusiastic admirer of the beauties of 
Nature, sir ? ’’ said the military gentleman. 

“ I am, sir,” replied Mr. Cymon Tuggs. 

“ Travelled much, sir ? ” inquired the military gentle- 
man. 

“ Not much,” replied Mr. Cymon Tuggs. 

“ You’ve been on the continent, of course ?” inquired 
the military gentleman. 

“Not exactly,” replied Mr. Cymon Tuggs — in a quali- 
fied tone, as if he wished it to be implied that he had 
gone half-way and come back again. 

“ You of course intend your son to make the grand 
tour, sir ? ” said the military gentleman, addressing Mr. 
Joseph Tuggs. 

As Mr. Joseph Tuggs did not precisely understand 
what the grand tour was, or how such an article was 
manufactured, he replied, “ Of course.” Just as he said 
the word, there came tripping up, from her seat at the 
stern of the vessel, a young lady in a puce-colored silk 
cloak, and boots of the same ; with long black ringlets, 
large black eyes, brief petticoats, and unexceptionable 
ankles. 

“ Walter, my dear,” said the young lady to the military 
gentleman. 

“ Yes, Belinda, my love,” responded the military gen- 
tleman to the black-eyed young lady. 

“ What have you left me alo^e so long for ? ” said the 
young lady. “ I have been stared out of countenance by 
those rude young men.” 

“ What ! stared at ? ” exclaimed the military gentle- 
man, with an emphasis which made Mr. Cymon Tuggs 
withdraw his eyes from the young lady’s face with incon- 
ceivable rapidity. “ Which young men — where ? ” and 


THE TUGGS’S AT RAMSGATE. 


119 


the military gentleman clenched his fist, and glared fear- 
fully on the cigar-smokers around. 

“ Be calm, Walter, I entreat,’" said the young lady. 

I won’t,” said the military gentleman. 

“ Do, sir,” interposed Mr. Cymon Tuggs. “ They a’n’t 
worth your notice.” 

“ No — no — they are not, indeed,” urged the young 
lady. 

‘‘ I will be calm,” said the military gentleman. You 
speak truly, sir. I thank you for a timely remonstrance, 
which may have spared me the guilt of manslaughter.” 
Calming his wrath, the military gentleman wrung Mr. 
Cymon Tuggs by the hand. 

“ My sister, sir ! ” said Mr. Cymon Tuggs ; seeing that 
the military gentleman was casting an admiring look 
towards Miss Charlotta. 

“ My wife, ma’am — Mrs. Captain Waters,” said the 
military gentleman, presenting the black-eyed young 
lady. 

“ My mother, ma’am — Mrs. Tuggs,” said Mr. Cymon. 
The military gentleman and his wife murmured enchant- 
ing courtesies : and the Tuggs’s looked as unembarrassed 
as they could. 

“ Walter, my dear,” said the black-eyed young lady, 
after they had sat chatting with the Tuggs’s some half 
hour. 

“ Yes, my love,” said the military gentleman. 

“ Don’t you think this gentleman (with an inclination 
of the head towards Mr. Cymon Tuggs) is very much 
like the Marquis Carriwini ? ” 

“ Lord bless me, very ! ” said the military gentleman. 

“ It struck me, the moment I saw him,” said the young 
lady, gazing intently, and with a melancholy air, on the 


120 


SKETCHES BY BOZ. 


Bcarlet countenance of Mr. Cymon Tuggs. Mr. Cymon 
Tuggs looked at everybody ; and finding that everybody 
was looking at him, appeared to feel some temporary 
difficulty in disposing of his eyesight. 

“ So exactly the air of the marquis,” said the military 
gentleman. 

“ Quite extraordinary ! ” sighed the military gentle- 
man’s lady. 

“ You don’t know the marquis, sir ? ” inquired the mili- 
tary gentleman. 

Mr. Cymon Tuggs stammered a negative. 

If you did,” continued Captain Walter Waters, ‘^you 
would feel how much reason you have to Be proud of the 
resemblance — a most elegant man, with a most prepos- 
sessing appearance.” 

“ He is — he is indeed !” exclaimed Belinda Waters 
energetically. As her eye caught that of Mr. Cymon 
Tuggs, she withdi’ew it from his features in bashful con- 
fusion. 

All this was highly gratifying to the feelings of the 
Tuggs’s ; and when, in the course of farther conversa- 
tion, it was discovered that Miss Charlotta Tuggs was the 
facsimile of a titled relative of Mrs. Belinda Waters, 
and that Mrs. Tuggs herself was the very picture of the 
Dowager Duchess of Dobbleton, their delight in the 
acquisition of so genteel and friendly an acquaintance 
knew no bounds. Even the dignity of Captain Walter 
Waters relaxed, to that degree, that he suffered himself 
to be prevailed upon by Mr. Joseph Tuggs to partake 
of cold pigeon-pie and sherry, on deck ; and a most de- 
lightful conversation, aided by these agreeable stimu- 
lants, was prolonged, until they ran alongside Ramsgate 
Pier. 


THE TUGGS'S AT RAMSGATE. 


121 


“ Good by’e, dear! ” said Mrs. Captain Waters to Misa 
Charlotta Tuggs, just before the bustle of landing com- 
menced ; we shall see you on the sands in the morning 
and, as we are sure to have found lodgings before then, 
I hope we shall be inseparables for many weeks to 
come.” 

Oh ! I hope so,” said Miss Charlotta Tuggs, em- 
phatically. 

“ Tickets, ladies and gen’lm’n,” said the man on the 
paddle-box. 

‘fWant a porter, sir ? ” inquired a dozen men in smock- 
frocks. 

“ Now, my dear 1 ” said Captain Waters. 

“ Good by’e ! ” said Mrs. Captain Waters — “ good 
by’e, Mr. Cymon ! ” and with a pressure of the hand 
which threw the amiable young man’s nerves into a state 
of considerable derangement, Mrs. Captain Waters dis- 
appeared among the crowd. A pair of puce-colored 
boots were seen ascending the steps, a white handker- 
chief fluttered, a black eye gleamed. The Waters’s 
were gone, and Mr. Cymon Tuggs was alone in a heart- 
less world. 

Silently and abstractedly did that too sensitive youth 
follow his revered parents, and a train of smock-frocks 
and wheel-barrows, along the pier, until the bustle of the 
scene around, recalled him to himself. The sun was 
shining brightly ; the sea, dancing to its own music, 
rolled merrily in ; crowds of people promenaded to and 
fro ; young ladies tittered ; old ladies talked ; nurse- 
maids displayed their charms to the greatest possible 
advantage ; and their little charges ran up and down, 
and to and fro, and in and out, under the feet, and be- 
tween the legs, of the assembled concourse, in the most 


122 


SKETCHES BY BOZ. 


playful and exhilarating manner. There were old gen- 
tlemen, trying to make out objects through long tele- 
scopes ; and young ones, making objects of themselves in 
open shirt-collars ; ladies, carrying about portable chairs, 
and portable chairs carrying about invalids ; parties, 
waiting on the pier for parties who had come by the 
steamboat ; and nothing was to be heard but talking, 
laughing, welcoming, and merriment. 

Fly, sir ? ” exclaimed a chorus of fourteen men and 
six boys, the moment Mr. Joseph Tuggs, at the head of 
his little party, set foot in the street. 

Here’s the gen’lm’n at last ! ” said one, touching his 
hat with mock politeness. “ Werry glad to see you, sir, 
— been a-waitin’ for you these six weeks. Jump in, if 
you please, sir ! ” 

“ Nice light fly and a fast trotter, sir,” said another : 
fourteen mile a hour, and surroundin’ objects rendered 
inwisible by ex-treme welocity ! ” 

“ Large fly for your luggage, sir,” cried a third. 
£< 'V^erry large fly here, sir — reg’lar bluebottle ! ” 

“ Here’s your fly, sir ! ” shouted another aspiring char- 
ioteer, mounting the box, and inducing an old gray horse 
to indulge in some perfect reminiscences of a canter. 
“ Look at him, sir ! — temper of a lamb and haction of a 
steam-ingein ! ” 

Resisting even the temptation of securing the services 
of so valuable a quadruped as the last-named, Mr. Joseph 
Tuggs beckoned to the proprietor of a dingy conveyance 
of a greenish hue, lined with faded striped calico ; and, 
the luggage and the family having been deposited therein, 
the animal in the shafts, after describing circles in the 
road for a quarter of an hour, at last consented to 
depart in quest of lodgings. 


THE TUGGS’S AT RAMSGATE. 


123 


“How many beds have you got?” screamed Mrs. 
Tuggs out of the fly, to the woman who opened the door 
of the first house which displayed a bill intimating that 
apartments were to be let within. 

“ How many did you want, ma’am ? ” was, of course, 
the reply. 

“ Three.” 

“ Will you step in, ma’am ? ” Down got Mrs. Tuggs. 
The family were delighted. Splendid view of the sea 
from the front windows — charming ! A short pause. 
Back came Mrs. Tuggs again. — One parlor and a mat- 
tress. 

“ Why the devil didn’t they say so at first ? ” inquired 
Mr. Joseph Tuggs, rather pettishly. 

“ Don’t know,” said Mrs. Tuggs. 

“ Wretches ! ” exclaimed the nervous Cymon. An- 
other bill — another stoppage. Same question — same 
answer — similar result. 

“ What do they mean by this ? ” inquired Mr. Joseph 
Tuggs, thoroughly out of temper. 

“ Don’t know,” said the placid Mrs. Tuggs. 

“ Orvis the vay here, sir,” said the driver, by way of 
accounting for the circumstance in a satisfactory manner ; 
and off they went again, to make fresh inquiries, and 
encounter fresh disappointments. 

It had grown dusk when the “fly” — the rate of 
whose progress greatly belied its name — after climbing 
•up four or five perpendicular hills, stopped before the 
door of a dusty house, with a bay-window, from which 
you could obtain a beautiful glimpse of the sea — if you 
thrust half your body out of it, at the imminent peril of 
failing into the area. Mrs. Tuggs alighted. One ground- 
floor sitting-room, and three cells v/ith beds in them up- 


124 


SKETCHES BY BOZ. 


stall's. A double house. Family on the opposite side. 
Five children milk-and-watering in the parlor, and one 
little boy, expelled for bad behavior, screaming on his 
back in the passage. 

“ What’s the terms ? ” said Mrs. Tuggs. The mistress 
of the house was considering the expediency of putting 
on an extra guinea; so, she coughed slightly, and affected 
not to hear the question. 

“ What’s the terms ? ” said Mrs. Tuggs, in a louder 
key. 

“ Five guineas a week, ma’am, with attendance,” re- 
plied the lodging-house keeper. (Attendance means the 
privilege of ringing the bell as often as you like, for your 
own amusement.) 

“ Rather dear,” said Mrs. Tuggs. 

‘‘ Oh dear, no, ma’am ! ” replied the mistress of the 
house, with a benign smile of pity at the ignorance of 
manners and customs, which the observation betrayed. 
“ Very cheap ! ” 

Such an authority was indisputable. Mrs. Tuggs paid 
a week’s rent in advance, and took the lodgings for a 
month. In an hour’s time, the family were seated at tea 
in their new abode. 

“ Capital srimps ! ” said Mr. Joseph Tuggs. 

Mr. Cymon eyed his father with a rebellious scowl, as 
lie emphatically said “ Shrimps.^^ 

“ Well then, shrimps,” said Mr. Joseph Tuggs. “ Srimps 
or shrimps, don’t much matter.” 

There was pity, blended with malignity, in Mr. Cy- 
ra on’s eye, as he replied, “ Don’t matter, father ! What 
would Captain Waters say, if he heard such vulgar- 
ity?” 

“ Or what w^ould dear Mrs. Captain Waters say,” added 


THE TUGGS’S AT RAMSGATE. 


125 


Charlotta, ‘‘ if she saw mother — ma, I mean — eating 
them whole, heads and all ! ” 

“ It won’t bear thinking of ! ” ejaculated Mr. Cymon, 
with a shudder. “ How different,” he thought, from the 
Dowager Duchess of Dobbleton ! ” 

“ Very pretty woman, Mrs. Captain Waters, is she not, 
Cymon ? ” inquired Miss Charlotta. 

A glow of nervous excitement passed over the coun- 
tenance of Mr. Cymon Tuggs, as he replied, “ An angel 
of beauty ! ” 

“ Hallo ! ” said Mr. Joseph Tuggs, Hallo, Cymon, 
my boy, take care. Married lady you know ; ” and he 
winked one of his twinkling eyes knowingly. 

“ Why,” exclaimed Cymon, starting up with an ebulli- 
^tion of fury, as unexpected as alarming, “ Why am I to 
be reminded of that blight of my happiness, and ruin of 
my hopes ? Why am I to be taunted with the miseries 
which are heaped upon my head ? Is it not enough to 
— to — to,” and the orator paused ; but whether for 
want of words, or lack of breatli, was never distinctly 
ascertained. 

There was an impressive solemnity in the tone of this 
address, and in the air with which the romantic Cymon, 
at its conclusion, rang the bell, and demanded a flat can- 
dlestick, which effectually forbade -a reply. He stalked 
I dramatically to bed, and the Tuggs’s went to bed too, 
half an hour afterwards, in a state of considerable mys- 
tification and perplexity. 

If the pier had presented a scene of life and bustle to 
the Tuggs’s on their first landing at Ramsgate, it was far 
I surpassed by the appearance of the sands on the morning 
after their arrival. It was a fine, bright, clear day, with 
a light breeze from the sea. There were the same ladies 


126 


SKETCHES BY BOZ. 


and gentlemen, the same children, the same nursemaids, 
the same telescopes, the same portable chairs. The 
ladies were employed in needlework, or watchguard 
making, or knitting, or reading novels ; the gentlemen 
were reading newspapers and magazines ; the children 
were digging holes in the sand with wooden spades, and 
collecting water therein ; the nursemaids, with their 
youngest charges in their arms, were running in after 
the waves, and then running back with the waves after 
them ; and, now and then, a little sailing-boat either de- 
parted with a gay and talkative cargo of passengers, or 
returned with a very silent, and particularly uncomfort- 
able-looking one. 

“Well, I never!” exclaimed Mrs. Tuggs, as she and 
Mr. Joseph Tuggs, and Miss Charlotta Tuggs, and Mr. 
Cymon Tuggs, with their eight feet in a corresponding 
number of yellow shoes, seated themselves on four rush- 
bottomed chairs, which, being placed in a soft part of the 
sand, forthwith sunk down some two feet and a half. — 
“ Well, I never ! ” 

Mr. Cymon, by an exertion of great personal strength, 
uprooted the chairs, and removed them further back. 

“Why, I’m bless’d if there a’n’t some ladies agoing 
in I ” exclaimed Mr. Joseph Tuggs, with intense aston- 
ishment. 

“ Lor, pa I ” exclaimed Miss Charlotta. 

“ 'Fhere is, my dear,” said Mr. Joseph Tuggs. And, 
sure enough, four young ladies, each furnished with a 
towel, tripped up the steps of a bathing-machine. In 
went the horse, floundering about in the water ; round 
turned the machine ; down sat the driver ; and presently 
out burst the young ladies aforesaid, with four distinct 
splashes. 


THE TUGGS'S AT RAMSGATE. 


127 


Well, that’s sing’ler, too ! ” ejaculated Mr. Joseph 
Tuggs, after an awkward pause. Mr. Cymon coughed 
slightly. 

“ Why, here’s some gentlemen agoing in on this side,” 
exclaimed Mrs. Tuggs, in a tone of horror. 

Three machines — three horses — three flounderings 
— three turnings round — three splashes — three gen- 
tlemen, disporting themselves in the water like so many 
dolphins. 

“ Well, thafs sing’ler 1 ” said Mr. Joseph Tuggs again. 
Miss Charlotta coughed this time, and another pause 
ensued. It was agreeably broken. 

“ How d’ye do, dear ? We have been looking for you, 
all the morning,” said a voice to Miss Charlotta Tuggs. 
Mrs. Captain Waters was the owner of it. 

‘‘How d’ye do?” said Captain Walter Waters, all 
suavity ; and a most cordial interchange of greetings 
ensued.. 

“ Belinda, my love,” said Captain Walter Waters, ap- 
plying his glass to his eye, and looking in the direction 
of the sea. 

“ Yes, my dear,” replied Mrs. Captain Waters. 

“ There’s Harry Thompson ! ” 

“ Where ? ” said Belinda, applying her glass to her 
eye. 

“ Bathing.” 

“ Lor, so it is ! He don’t see us, does he ? ” 

“ No, I don’t think he does,” replied the captain. 
'‘ Bless my soul, how very singular ! ” 

“ What ? ” inquired Belinda. 

“ There’s Mary Golding, too.” 

“ Lor ! — where ? ” (Up went the glass again.) 

“ There ! ” said the captain, pointing to one of tho 


128 


SKETCHES BY BOZ. 


young ladies before noticed, who, in her bathing costume, 
looked as if she was enveloped in a patent Mackintosh, 
of scanty dimensions. 

“ So it is, I declare ! ” exclaimed Mrs. Captain Waters. 
“ How very curious we should see them both ! ” 

“ Very,” said the captain, with perfect coolness. 

It’s the reg’lar thing here, you see,” whispered Mr. 
Cymon Tuggs to his father. 

“ I see it is,” whispered Mr. Joseph Tuggs in reply. 
“ Queer though — a’n’t it ? ” Mr. Cymon Tuggs nodded 
assent. 

“ What do you think of doing with yourself this 
morning ? ” inquired the captain. “ Shall we lunch at 
Pegwell ? ” 

“ I should like that very much indeed,” interposed 
Mrs. Tuggs. She had never heard of Pegwell ; but the 
word “ lunch ” had reached her ears, and it sounded very 
agreeably. 

“ How vshall we go ? ” inquired the captain ; “ it’s too 
warm to wmlk.” 

‘‘A shay?” suggested Mr. Joseph Tuggs. 

“ Chaise,” whispered Mr. Cymon. 

“ I should think one would be enough,” said Mr. Joseph 
Tuggs aloud, quite unconscious of the meaning of the 
correction. “ However, two shays if you like.” 

‘‘ I should like a donkey so much,” said Belinda. 

‘‘ Oh, so should I ! ” echoed Charlotta Tuggs. 

Well, we can have a fly,” suggested the captain, 
“ and you can have a couple of donkeys.” 

A fresh difficulty arose. Mrs. Captain Waters de- 
clared it would be decidedly improper for two ladies to 
ride alone. The remedy was obvious. Perhaps young 
Mr, Tuggs would be gallant enough to accompany them. 


THE TUGGS’S AT RAMSGATE. 


*129 


Mr. Cymon Tuggs blushed, smiled, looked vacant, and 
faintly protested that he was no horseman. The objec- 
tion was at once overruled. A fly was speedily found ; 
and three donkeys — which the proprietor declared on 
his solemn asseveration to be “ three parts blood, and the 
other corn ” — were engaged in the service. 

“ Kim up ! ’* shouted one of the two boys who followed 
behind, to propel the donkeys, when Belinda Waters and 
Charlotta Tuggs had been hoisted, and pushed, and pulled, 
into their respective saddles. 

Hi — hi — hi ! ” groaned the other boy behind Mr. 
Cymon Tuggs. Away went the donkey, with the stir- 
rups jingling against the heels of Cymon’s boots, and 
Cymon’s boots nearly scraping the ground. 

“ Way — way ! Wo — o — o — o — ! ’’ cried Mr. Cymon 
Tuggs as well as he could, in the midst of the jolting. ^ 

“ Don’t make it gallop ! ” screamed Mrs. Captain 
Waters, behind. 

“ My donkey will go into the public-house ! ” shrieked 
Miss Tuggs in the rear. 

‘‘Hi — hi^hi!” groaned both the boys together; 
and on went the donkeys as if nothing would ever stop 
them. 

Everything has an end, however ; even the galloping 
of donkeys will cease in time. The animal which Mr. 
Cymon Tuggs bestrode, feeling sundry uncomfortable 
tugs at the bit, the intent of which he could by no means 
divine, abruptly sidled against a brick wall, and expressed 
his uneasiness by grinding Mr. Cymon Tuggs ’s leg on the 
rough surface. Mrs. Captain Waters’s donkey, appar- 
ently under the influence of some playfulness of spirit, 
rushed suddenly, head first, into a hedge, and declined 
to come out again: and the quadruped on which Miss 

VOL. II. 9 


130 - 


sketches BY BOZ. 


Tuggs was mounted, expressed his delight at this humor- 
ous proceeding by firmly planting his fore-feet against 
the ground, and kicking up his hind-legs in a very agile, 
but somewhat alarming manner. 

This abrupt termination to the rapidity of the ride, 
naturally occasioned some confusion. Both the ladies 
indulged in vehement screaming for several minutes ; 
and Mr. Cymon Tuggs, besides sustaining intense bodily 
pain, had the additional mental anguish of witnessing 
their distressing situation, without having the power to 
rescue them, by reason of his leg being firmly screwed 
in between the animal and the wall. The efforts of the 
boys, however, assisted by the ingenious expedient of 
twisting the tail of the most rebellious donkey, restored 
order in a much shorter time than could have reasonably 
been expected, and the little party jogged slowly on 
together. 

‘‘ Now let ’em walk,” said Mr. Cymon Tuggs. It’s 
cruel to overdrive ’em.’’ 

u ^erry well, sir,” replied the boy, with a grin at his 
companion, as if he understood Mr. Cymon to mean that 
the cruelty applied less to the animals than to their 
riders. 

“ What a lovely day, dear ! ” said Charlotta. 

“ Charming ; enchanting, dear ! ” responded Mrs. 
Captain Waters. “ What' a beautiful prospect, Mr. 
Tuggs ! ” 

Cymon looked full in Belinda’s face, as he responded 
— “ Beautiful, indeed ! ” The lady cast down her eyes, 
and suffered the animal she was riding to fall a little 
back. Cymon Tuggs instinctively did the same. 

There was a brief silence, broken only by a sigh from 
Mr. Cymon Tuggs. 


THE TUGGS’S AT KAMSGATE. 


131 


“ Mr. Cymon/’ said the lady suddenly, in a low tone, 
“ Mr. Cymon — I am another’s.” 

Mr. Cymon expressed his perfect concurrence in a 
statement which it was impossible to controvert. 

If I had not been — ” resumed Belinda ; and there 
she stopped. 

“ What — what ? ” said Mr. Cymon, earnestly. “ Do 
not torture me. What would you say ? ” 

‘‘ If I had not been ” — continued Mrs. Captain Waters 
— ‘‘ if, in earlier life, it had been my fate to have known, 
and been beloved by, a noble youth — a kindred soul — 
a congenial spirit — one capable of feeling and appre- 
ciating the sentiments which — ” 

Heavens ! what do I hear ? ” exclaimed Mr. Cymon 
Tuggs. “ Is it possible ! can I believe my — Come up ! ” 
(This last unsentimental parenthesis was addressed to the 
donkey, who with his head between his fore-legs, ap- 
peared to be examining the state of his shoes with great 
anxiety.) 

Hi — hi — hi,” said the boys behind. “ Come up,” 
expostulated Cymon Tuggs again. “ Hi — hi — hi ! ” 
repeated the boys again. And whether it was that the 
animal felt indignant at tlie tone of Mr. Tuggs’s com- 
mand, or felt alarmed by the noise of the deputy pro- 
prietor’s boots running behind him ; or whether he burned 
with a noble emulation to outstrip the other donkeys ; 
certain it is that he no sooner heard the second series of 
hi — hi’s,” than he started away, with a celerity of pace 
which jerked Mr. Cymon’s hat off, instantaneously, and 
carried him to the Pegwell Bay hotel in no time, where 
he deposited his rider without giving him the trouble of 
dismounting, by sagaciously pitching him over his head 
into the very doorway of the tavern. 


132 


SKETCHES BY BOZ. 


Great was the confusion of Mr. Cymon Tuggs, when 
he was put right end uppermost by two waiters ; consid- 
erable was the alarm of Mrs. Tuggs in behalf of her 
son ; agonizing were the apprehensions of Mrs. Captain 
Waters on his account. It was speedily discovered, 
however, that he had not sustained much more injury 
than the donkey — he was grazed, and the animal was 
grazing — and then it was a delightful party to be sure ! 
Mr. and Mrs. Tuggs, and the captain, had ordered lunch 
in the little garden behind : — small saucers of large 
shrimps, dabs of butter, crusty loaves, and bottled ale. 
The sky was without a cloud ; there were dowser-pots 
and turf belbre them ; the sea, from the foot of the cliff, 
stretching away as far as the eye could discern anything 
at all ; vessels in the distance, with sails as white and 
as small as nicely got-up cambric handkerchiefs. The 
shrimps were delightful, the ale better, and the captain 
even more pleasant than either. Mrs. Captain Waters 
was in such spirits after lunch ! — chasing, first the cap- 
tain across the turf, and among the fiow^er-pots ; and 
then Mr. Cymon Tuggs ; and then Miss Tuggs ; and 
laughing, too, quite boisterously. But as the captain 
said, it didn’t matter ; who knew what they were, there ? 
For all the people of the house knew, they might be 
common people. To which Mr. Joseph Tuggs responded, 
“ To be sure.” And then they went down the steep 
w^ooden steps a little further on, which led to the bottom 
of the cliff ; and looked at the crabs, and the seaweed, 
and the eels, till it was more than fully time to go back 
to Ramsgate again. Finally, Mr. Cymon Tuggs as- 
cended the steps last, and Mrs. Captain Waters last but 
one ; and Mr. Cymon Tuggs discovered that the fool 


THE TUGGS’S AT RAMSGATE. 


133 


and ankle of Mrs. Captain Waters were even more un- 
exceptionable than he had at first supposed. 

Taking a donkey towards his ordinary place of resi- 
dence, is a very different thing, and a feat much more easily 
to be accomplished, than taking him from it. It requires 
a great deal of foresight and presence of mind in the 
one case, to anticipate the numerous flights of his discur- 
sive imagination ; whereas, in the other, all you have to 
do, is, to hold on, and place a blind confidence in the 
animal. Mr. Cymon Tuggs adopted the latter expedient 
on his return ; and his nerves were so little discomposed 
by the journey, that he distinctly understood they were 
all to meet again at the library in the evening. 

The library was crowded. There were the same 
ladies, and the same gentlemen, who had been on the 
sands in the morning, and on the pier the day before. 
There were young ladies, in maroon-colored gowns and 
black velvet bracelets, dispensing fancy articles in the 
shop, and presiding over games of chance in the concert- 
room. There were marriageable .daughters, and mar- 
riage-making mammas, gaming and promenading, and 
turning over music, and flirting. There were some male 
beaux doing the sentimental in whispers, and others 
doing the ferocious in moustache. There were Mrs. Tuggs 
in amber. Miss Tuggs in sky-blue, Mrs. Captain Waters in 
pink. There was Captain Waters in a braided surtout ; 
there was Mr. Cymon Tuggs in pumps and a gilt waist- 
coat ; there was Mr. Joseph Tuggs in a blue coat, and a 
shirt-frill. • 

“ Numbers three, eight, and eleven ! ” cried one of the 
young ladies in the maroon-colored gowns. 

“ Numbers three, eight, and eleven ! ” echoed another 
young lady in the same uniform. 


134 


SKETCHES BY BOZ. 


“ Number three’s gone,” said the first young lady. 
^‘Numbers eight and eleven!” 

Numbers eight and eleven 1 ” echoed the second 
young lady. 

“ Number eight’s gone, Mary Ann,” said the first 
young lady. 

Number eleven I ” screamed the second. 

“ The numbers are all taken now, ladies, if you please,” 
said the first. The representatives of numbers three, 
eight, and eleven, and the rest of the numbers, crowded 
round the table. 

Will you throw, ma’am ? ” said the presiding goddess, 
handing the dice-box to the eldest daughter of a stout 
lady, 'with four girls. 

There was a profound silence among the lookers-on. 

‘‘ Throw, Jane, my dear,” said the stout lady. An in- 
teresting display of bashfulness — a little blushing in a 
cambric handkerchief — a whispering to a younger sister. 

“Amelia, my dear, throw for your sister,” said the 
stout lady ; and then -she turned to a walking advertise- 
ment of Rowland’s Macassar Oil, who stood next her, 
and said, “ Jane is so very modest and retiring ; but I 
can’t be angry with her for it. An artless and unsophis- 
ticated girl is so truly amiable, that I often wish Amelia 
was more like her sister 1 ” 

The gentleman with the whiskers whispered his ad- 
miring approval. 

“ Now, my dear ! ” said the stout lady. Miss Amelia 
threw — eight for her sister, ten for herself. 

“ Nice figure, Amelia,” whispered the stout lady, to a 
thin youth beside her. 

“ Beautiful ! ” 

“ And such a spirit ! I am like you in that respect. I 


THE TUGGS’S AT RAMSGATE. 135 

can not help admiring that life and vivacity. Ah ! (a 
sigh) I wish I could make poor Jane a little more like 
my dear Amelia ! ” 

The young gentleman cordially acquiesced in the sen- 
timent ; both he, and the individual first addressed, were 
perfectly contented. 

‘‘ Who’s this ? ” inquired Mr. Cymon Tuggs of Mrs. 
Captain Waters, as a short female, in a blue velvet hat 
and feathers, was led into the orchestra, by a fat man in 
black tights, and cloudy Berlins. 

“ Mrs. Tippin, of the London theatres,” replied Be- 
linda, referring to the programme of the concert. 

The talented Tippin having condescendingly acknowl- 
edged the clapping of hands, and shouts of “ bravo ! ” 
which greeted her appearance, proceeded to sing the 
popular cavatina of “ Bid me discourse,” accompanied on 
the piano by Mr. Tippin ; after which, Mr. Tippin sang 
a comic song, accompanied on the piano by Mrs. Tippin : 
the applause consequent upon which was only to be ex- 
ceeded by the enthusiastic approbation bestowed upon an 
air with variations on the guitar, by Miss Tippin, accom.- 
panied on the chin by Master Tippin. 

Thus passed the evening ; thus passed the days and 
evenings of the Tuggs’s, and the Waters’s, for six weeks. 
Sands in the morning — donkeys at noon — pier in the 
afternoon — library at night — and the same people 
everywhere. 

On that very night six weeks, the moon was shining 
brightly over the calm sea, which dashed against the feet 
of the tall gaunt cliffs, with just enough noise to lull the 
old fish to sleep, without disturbing the young ones, when 
two figures were discernible — or would have been, if 
anybody had looked for them — seated on one of the 


136 


SKETCHES BY BOZ. 


wooden benches which are stationed near the verge of 
the western cliff. The moon liad climbed higher into 
the heavens, by two hours’ journeying, since those figures 
first sat down — and yet they had moved not. The 
crowd of loungers had thinned and dispersed ; the noise 
of itinerant musicians had died away ; light after light 
had appeared, in the windows of the different houses in 
the distance ; blockade-man after blockade-man had 
passed the spot, wending his way towards his solitary 
post ; and yet those figures had remained stationary. 
Some portions of the two forms were in deep shadow, 
but the light of the moon fell strongly on a puce-colored 
boot and a glazed stock. Mr. Cymon Tuggs, and Mrs. 
Captain Waters, were seated on that bench. They spoke 
not, but were silently gazing on the sea. 

“Walter will return to-morrow,” said Mrs. Captain 
Waters, mournfully breaking silence. 

Mr. Cymon Tuggs sighed like a gust of wind through 
a forest of gooseberry bushes, as he replied, “ Alas he 
will.” 

“ Oh, Cymon ! ” resumed Belinda, “ the chaste delight, 
the calm happiness, of this one week of Platonic love, is 
too much for me ! ” 

Cymon was about to suggest that it was too little for 
him, but he stopped himself, and murmured unintel- 
ligibly. _ ’ 

“ And to think that even this glimpse of happiness, 
innocent as it is,” exclaimed Belinda, “ is now to be lost 
for ever ! ” 

“ Oh, do not say for ever, Belinda,” exclaimed the ex- 
citable Cymon, as two strongly defined tears chased each 
other down his pale face — it was so long that there was 
plenty of room for a chase — “ Do not say for ever ! ” 


THE TUGGS’S AT RAMSGATE. 


137 


I must,” replied Belinda. 

« Why ? ” urged Cymon, “ oh why ? Such Platonic 
acquaintance as ours is so harmless, that even your hus- 
band can never object to it.” 

“ My husband ! ” exclaimed Belinda. You little 
know him. Jealous and revengeful ; ferocious in his 
revenge — a maniac in his jealousy! Would you be 
assassinated before my eyes ? ” Mr. Cymon Tuggs, in a 
voice broken by emotion, expressed his disinclination to 
undergo the process of assassination before the eyes of 
anybody. 

Then leave me,” said Mrs. Captain Waters. “ Leave 
me, this night, for ever. It is late ; let us return.” 

Mr. Cymon Tuggs sadly offered the lady his arm, and 
escorted her to her lodgings. He paused at the door — 
he felt a Platonic pressure of his hand. “ Good night,” 
he said, hesitating. 

“ Good night,” sobbed the lady. Mr. Cymon Tuggs 
paused again. 

‘‘Won’t you walk in, sir?” said the servant., Mr. 
Tuggs hesitated. Oh, that hesitation I He did walk 
in. 

“ Good night ! ” said Mr. Cymon Tuggs again, w^hen he 
reached the drawing-room. 

“ Good night ! ” replied Belinda ; “ and, if at any 
period of my life, I — Hush!” The lady paused and 
stared, with a steady gaze of horror, on the ashy coun- 
tenance of Mr. Cymon Tuggs. There was a double 
knock at the street-door. 

“ It is my husband ! ” said Belinda, as the captain’s 
voice was heard below. 

“ And my family ! ” added Cymon Tuggs, as the voices 
of his relatives floated up the staircase. 


138 


SKETCHES BY BOZ. 


‘‘ The curtain ! The curtain ! ” gasped Mrs. Captain 
Waters, pointing to the window, before which some 
chintz hangings were closely drawn. 

“ But I have done nothing -wrong,” said the hesitating 
Cyinon. 

“ The curtain ! ” reiterated the frantic lady : “ you 
will be murdered.” This last appeal to his feelings 
was irresistible. The dismayed Cymon concealed 
himself behind the curtain, with pantomimic sudden- 
ness. 

Enter the captain, Joseph Tuggs, Mrs. Tuggs, and 
Charlotta. 

“ My dear,” said the captain, “ Lieutenant Slaughter.” 
Two iron-shod boots and one gruff voice were heard by 
Mr. Cymon to advance, and acknowledge the honor of 
the introduction. The sabre of the lieutenant rattled 
heavil}^ upon the floor, as he seated himself at the table. 
Mr. Cymon’s fears almost overcame his reason. 

“ The brandy, my dear ! ” said the captain. Here was 
a situation ! They were going to make a night of it ! 
And Mr. Cymon Tuggs was pent up behind the curtain 
and afraid to breathe ! 

“ Slaughter,” said the captain, a cigar ? ” 

Now, Mr. Cymon Tuggs never could' smoke, without 
feeling it indispensably necessary to retire, immediately, 
rmd never could smell smoke without a strong disposition 
to cough. The cigars were introduced ; the captain was 
a professed smoker ; so -svas the lieutenant ; so was Joseph 
Tuggs. The apartment was small, the door was closed, 
the smoke powerful ; it hung in heavy wreaths over the 
room, and at length found its way behind the curtain. 
Cymon Tuggs held his nose, his inouth, his breath. It 
was all of no use — out came the cou^fh. 


THE TUGGS’S AT RAMSGATE- 


139 


“ Bless my soul ! ” said the captain, “ I beg your par- 
don, Miss Tuggs. You dislike smoking?” 

“ Oh, no ; I don’t indeed,” said Charlotta. 

It makes you cough.” 

‘‘ Oh dear no.” 

You coughed just now.” 

“ Me, Captain Waters ! Lor! how can you say so ? ” 

“ Somebody coughed,” said the captain. 

certainly thought so,” said Slaughter.’ No; every- 
body denied it. 

“ Fancy,” said the captain. 

“ Must be,” echoed Slaughter. 

Cigars resumed — more smoke — another cough — 
smothered, but violent. 

“ Damned odd I ” said the captain, staring about 
him. 

“ Sing’ler ! ” ejaculated the unconscious Mr. Joseph 
Tuggs. 

Lieutenant Slaughter looked first at one person mys- 
teriously, then at another ; then, laid down his cigar ; 
then, approached the window on tiptoe, and pointed with 
his right thumb over his shoulder, in the direction of the 
curtain. 

Slaughter ! ” ejaculated the captain, rising from table, 
“ what do you mean ? ” 

The lieutenant, in reply, drew back the 'curtain and 
discovered Mr. Cymon Tuggs behind it; pallid with 
apprehension, and blue with wanting to cough. 

“ Aha 1 ” exclaimed the captain furiously, “ What do I 
see ? Slaughter, your sabre 1 ” 

‘‘ Cymon 1 ” screamed the Tuggs’s. 

“ Mercy ! ” said Belinda. 

“ Platonic ! ” gasped Cymon. 


140 


SKETCHES BY BOZ 


Your sabre ! ” roared the captain : “ Slaughter — 
unhand me — the villain’s life ! ” 

“ Murder ! ” screamed the Tuggs’s. 

“ Hold him fast, sir ! ” faintly articulated Cymon. 

Water ! ” exclaimed Joseph Tuggs — and Mr. Cymon 
Tuggs and all the ladies forthwith fainted away, and' 
formed a tableau. 

Most willingly would we conceal the disastrous termi- 
nation of the six weeks’ acquaintance. A troublesome 
form, and an arbitrary custom, however, prescribe that a 
story should have a conclusion, in addition to a com- 
mencement ; we have therefore no alternative. Lieu- 
tenant Slaughter brought a message — the captain 
brought an action. Mr. Joseph Tuggs interposed — the 
lieutenant negotiated. When Mr. Cymon Tuggs re- 
covered from the nervous disorder into which misplaced 
affection, and exciting circumstances had plunged him, he 
found that his family had lost their pleasant acquaint- 
ance ; that his father was minus fifteen hundred pounds ; 
and the captain plus the precise sum. The money was 
paid to hush the matter up, but it got abroad notwith- 
standing ; and there are not wanting some who affirm 
that three designing impostors never found more easy 
dupes, than did Captain Waters, Mrs. Waters, and Lieu- 
tenant Slaughter, in the Tuggs’s at Ramsgate. 


HORATIO SPARKINS. 


141 


CHAPTER V. 

HORATIO SPARKINS. 

“ Indeed, my love, he paid Teresa very great atten- 
tion on the last assembly night,’’ said Mrs. Malderton, 
addressing her spouse, who, after the fatigues of the day 
in the City, wms sitting with a silk handkerchief over his 
head, and his feet on the fender, drinking his port ; — 
“ very great attention ; and I say again, every possible 
encouragement ought to be given him. He positively 
must be asked down here to dine.” 

“ Who must ? ” inquired Mr. Malderton. 

“ Why, you know whom I mean, my dear — the young 
man with the black whiskers and the white cravat, who 
has just come out at our assembly, and whom all the 

girls are talking about. Young dear me ! what’s 

his name ? — Marianne, what is his name ? ” continued 
Mrs. Malderton, addressing her youngest daughter, who 
was engaged in netting a purse and looking sentimental. 

“ Mr. Horatio Sparkins, ma,” replied Miss Marianne, 
with a sigh. 

“ Oh ! yes, to be sure — Horatio Sparkins,” said Mrs. 
Malderton. “ Decidedly the most gentleman-like young 
man I ever saw. I am sure, in the beautifully made 
coat he wore the other night, he looked like — like — ” 

“ Like Prince Leopold, ma — so noble, so full of sen- 
timent ! ” suggested Marianne, in a tone of enthusiastic 
admiration. 

“ You should recollect, my dear,” resumed Mrs. Mai- 


112 


SKETCHES BY BOZ. 


derton, that Teresa is now eight-and-twenty ; and that it 
really is very important that something should be done.” 

Miss Teresa Malderton was a very little girl, ratlier 
fat, with vermilion cheeks, but good-humored, and still 
disengaged, although, to do her justice, the misfoitune 
arose from no lack of perseverance on her part. In vaiii, 
had she flirted for ten years ; in vain, had Mr. and M i s. 
Malderton assiduously kept up an extensive acquaintance 
among the young eligible bachelors of Camberwell, and 
even of Wandsworth and Brixton; to say nothing of 
those who “ dropped in ” from town. Miss Malderton 
was as well known as the lion on the top of Northumber- 
land House, and had an eqiud chance of “ going off.” 

“ I am quite sure you’d like him,” continued Mrs. 
Malderton ; “ he is so gentlemanly ! ” 

“ So cleyer ! ” said Miss Marianne. 

“ And has such a flow of language ! ” added Miss 
Teresa. 

‘‘ He has a great respect for you, my dear,” said Mrs. 
Malderton to her husband. Mr. Malderton coughed, and 
looked at the fire. 

‘‘ Yes, I’m sure he’s very much attached to pa’s so- 
ciety,” said Miss Marianne. 

“ No doubt of it,” echoed Miss Teresa. 

“ Indeed, he said as much to me in confidence,” ob- 
served Mrs. Malderton. 

“ Well, well,” returned Mr. Malderton, somewhat flat- 
tered ; “ If I see him at the assembly to-morrow, perhaps 
I’ll ask him down. I hope he knows we live at Oak 
Lodge, Camberwell, my dear ? ” 

‘‘ Of course — and that you keep a one -horse carriage.” 

“ I’ll see about it,” said Mr. Malderton, composing 
himself for a nap ; “ I’ll see about it.” 


HORATIO SPARKINS. 


143 


Mr. Maldorton was a man whose whole scope of ideas 
was limited to Lloyd’s, the Exchange, the India House^ 
and the Bank. A few successful speculations had raised 
him from a situation of obscurity and comparative pov- 
erty to a state of affluence. As frequently happens in 
such cases, the ideas of himself and his family became 
elevated to an extraordinary pitch as their means in- 
creased ; they affected fashion, taste, and many other 
fooleries, in imitation of their betters, and had a very 
decided and becoming horror of anything which could, 
by possibility, be considered low. He w^as hospitable 
from ostentation, illiberal from ignorance, and prejudiced 
from conceit. Egotism and the love of display induced 
him to keep an excellent table : convenience, and a love 
of good things of this life, insured him plenty of guests. 
He liked to have clever men, or what he considered such, 
at his table, because it was a great thmg to talk about ; 
but he never could endure what he called sharp fel- 
lows.” Probably, he cherished this feeling out of com- 
pliment to his tw^o sons, who gave their respected parent 
no uneasiness in that particular. The family were am- 
bitious of forming acquaintances and connections in some 
sphere of society superior to that in which they them- 
selves moved ; and one of the necessary consequences of 
this desire, added to their utter ignorance of the world 
beyond their owm small circle, w’as, that any one who 
could lay claim to an acquaintance with people of rank 
an:! title, had a sure passport to the table at Oak Lodge, 
Camberw^ell. 

The appearance of Mr. Horatio Spark ins at the as- 
sembly had excited no small degree of surprise and 
curiosity among its regular frequenters. Who could he 
be ? He was evidently reserved, and apparently melan- 


144 


SKETCHES BY BOZ. 


choly. Was he 'a clergyman? — He danoed too well. 
A barrister ? — He said he was not called. He used 
very ’fine words, and talked a great deal. Could he he 
a distinguished foreigner, come to England, for the pur- 
pose of describing the country; its manners and cus- 
toms ; and frequenting public balls and public dinners, 
with the view of becoming acquainted with high life, 
polished etiquette and English refinement ? — No, be 
had not a foreign accent. Was he a surgeon, a contribu- 
tor to the magazines, a writer of fashionable novels, or 
an artist ? — No ; to each and all of these surmises, there 
existed some valid objection. — “ Then,” said everybody, 
“ he must be somebody'^ — “ I should think he must be,” 
reasoned Mr. Malderton, with himself, because he per- 
ceives our superiority, and pays us so much attention.” 

The night succeeding the conversation we have just, 
recorded, was “ assembly night.” The double-fly was 
ordered to be at the door of Oak Lodge at nine o’clock 
precisely. The Miss Maldertons were dressed in sky- 
blue satin trimmed with artificial flowers ; and Mrs. M. 
(who was a little fat woman) in ditto ditto, looked like 
her eldest daughter multiplied by two. Mr. Frederick 
Malderton, the eldest son, in full-dress costurjie, was the 
very beau ideal of a smart waiter ; and Mr. Thomas Mal- 
derton, the youngest, with his white dress-stock, blue coat, 
bright buttons, and red watch-ribbon, strongly resembled 
the portrait of that interesting, but rash young gentle- 
man, George Barnwell. Every member of the party 
had made up his or her mind to cultivate the acquaint- 
ance of Mr. Horatio Sparkins. Miss Teresa, of course, 
was to be as amiable and interesting as ladies of eight- 
and-twenty on the look-out for a husband usually are. 
Mrs. Malderton would be all smiles and graces. Miss 


HORATIO SPARKINS. 


145 


Marianne would request the favor of some verses for her 
album. Mr. Malderton would patronize the great un- 
known by asking him to dinner. Tom intended to ascer- 
tain the extent of his information on the interesting 
topics of snuff and cigars. Even Mr. Frederick Mal- 
derton himself, the family authority on all points of taste, 
dress, and fashionable arrangement ; who had lodgings 
of his own in town ; who had a free admission to Co- 
vent Garden theatre ; who always dressed according to 
the fashions of the months ; who went up the water 
twice a-week in the season ; and who actually had an 
intimate friend who once knew a gentleman who for- 
merly lived m the Albany, — even he had determined 
that Mr. Horatio Sparkins must be a devilish good fellow, 
and that he would do him the honor of challenging him 
to a game at billiards. 

The first object that met the anxious eyes of the ex- 
pectant family on their entrance into the ball-room, was 
the interesting Horatio, with his hair brushed off his fore- 
head, and his eyes fixed on the ceiling, reclining in a 
contemplative attitude on one of the seats. 

“ There he is, my dear,” whispered Mrs. IMalderton to 
Mr. IMalderton. 

“ How like Lord Byron ! ” murmured Miss Teresa. 

‘‘ Or Montgomery!” whispered Miss Marianne. 

Or the portraits of Captain Cook 1 ” suggested Tom. 

“ Tom — don’t be an ass I ” said his father, who checked 
him on all occasions, probably with a view to prevent his 
becoming “sharp” — which was very unnecessary. 

The elegant Sparkins attitudinized with admirable 
effect, until the family had crossed the room. He then 
started up, with the most natural appearance of surprise 
and delight ; accosted Mrs. Malderton with the utmost 

VOL. II. 10 


146 


SKETCHES BY BOZ. 


cordiality ; saluted the young ladies in the most enchant- 
ing manner; bowed to, and shook hands wdth, Mr. Mal-^ 
derton, with a degree of respect amounting almost to 
veneration ; and returned the greetings of the two young 
men in a half-gratified, half-patronizing manner, which 
fully convinced them that he must be an important, and, 
at the same time, condescending personage. 

“ Miss Malderton,” said Horatio, after the ordinary 
salutations, and bowing very low, ‘‘ may I be permitted 
to presume to hope that you will allow me to have the 
pleasure — ’’ 

“ I don’t thirik I am engaged,” said Miss Teresa, with 
a dreadful affectation of indifference — “ but, really — so 
many — ” 

Horatio looked handsomely miserable. 

“ I shall be most happy,” simpered the interesting 
Teresa, at last. Horatio’s countenance brightened up, 
like an old hat in a shower of rain. 

‘‘A very genteel young man, certainly!” said the 
gratified Mr. Malderton, as the obsequious Sparkins 
and his partner joined the quadrille which was just 
forming. 

“ He has a remarkably good address,” said Mr. Fred- 
erick. 

“ Yes, he is a prime fellow,” interposed Tom, who 
always managed to put his foot in it — “ he talks jusi 
like an auctioneer.” 

“ Tom 1 ” said his father solemnly, “ I think I desired 
you, before, not to be a fool.” Tom looked as happy as 
a cock on a drizzly morning. 

“ How delightful 1 ” said the interesting Horatio to his 
partner, as they promenaded the room at the conclusion 
of the set — how' delightful, how refreshing it is, to 


HORATIO SPARKINS. 


147 


retire from the cloudy storms, the vicissitudes, and the 
troubles, of life, even if it be but for a few short fleeting 
moments ; and to spend those moments, fading and eva- 
nescent though they be, in the delightful, tlie blessed^ 
society of one individual — whose frowns would be death, 
whose coldness would be madness, whose falsehood would 
be ruin, whose constancy would be bliss ; the possession 
of whose affection would be the brightest and best reward 
that Heaven could bestow on man ! ” 

What feeling ! what sentiment ! ” thought Miss 
Teresa, as she leaned more heavily on her companion’s 
arm. 

“ But enough — enough ! ” resumed the elegant Spar- 
kins, with a theatrical air. “ What have I said ? what 
have I — I — to do with sentiments like these ! Miss 
Malderton — ” here he stopped short — ‘‘ may I hope to 
be permitted to offer the humble tribute of — ” 

“ Really, Mr. Spafkins,” returned the enraptured 
Teresa, blushing in the sweetest confusion, I must refer 
you to papa. I never can, without his consent, venture 
to — ” 

“ Surely he cannot object — ” 

“ Oh, yes. Indeed, indeed, you know him not ! ” in- 
terrupted Miss Teresa, well knowing there was nothing 
to fear, but wishing to make the interview resemble a 
scene in some romantic novel. 

“ He cannot object to my offering you a glass of 
negus,” returned the adorable Sparkins, with some sur- 
prise. ♦ 

“ Is that all ? ” thought the disappointed Teresa. 
“ What a fuss about nothing ! ” 

“ It will give me the greatest pleasure, sir, to see you 
to dinner at Oak Lodge, Camberwell, on Sunday next at 


148 


SKETCHES BY BOZ. 


five o’clock, if you have no better engagement,” said Mr 
Malderton, at the conclusion of the evening, as he and 
his sons were standing in conversation with Mr. Horatio 
Sparkins. 

Horatio bowed his acknowledgments, and accepted the 
flattering invitation. 

I must confess,” continued the father, offering his 
snuff-box to his new acquaintance, “ that I don’t enjoy 
these assemblies half so much as the comfort — I liad 
almost said the luxury — of Oak Lodge. They have no 
great charms for an elderly man.” 

“ And, after all, sir, what is man ? ’’ said the meta- 
physical Sparkins. “ I say, what is man ? ” 

“ Ah ! very true,” said Mr. Malderton ; “ very true.” 

“ We know that we live and breathe,” continued Ho- 
ratio ; “ that we have wants and wishes, desires and 
appetites — ” 

“ Certainly,” said Mr. Frederick Malderton, looking 
profound. 

“ I say, we know that we exist,” repeated Horatio, rais- 
ing his voice, “ but^ there, we stop ; there is an end to our 
knowledge ; there, is the summit of our attainments ; 
there, is the termination of our ends. What jnore do 
we know ? ” 

“ Nothing,” replied Mr. Frederick — than whom no 
one was more capable of answering for himself in that 
particular. Tom was about to hazard something, but, 
fortunately for his reputation, he caught his father’s 
angry eye, and slunk off like a puppy convicted of petty 
larceny. 

“ Upon my word,” said Mr. Malderton the elder, as 
they were returning home in the Fly, “ that Mr. vSpar- 
kins is a wonderful young man. Such surprising know!- 


HOKATIO SPARKINS. 


149 


edge ! such extraordinary information ! and.such a splen 
did mode of expressing himself! ” 

“ I think he must be somebody in disguise,” said Miss 
Marianne. “ How charmingly romantic ! ” 

“ He talks very loud and nicely,” timidly observed 
Tom, “ but I don’t exactly understand what he means.” 

I almost begin to despair of your understanding any- 
»-hing, Tom,” said his father, who, of course, had been 
much enlightened by Mr. Horatio Sparkins’ conversa- 
tion. 

“ It strikes me, Tom,” said Miss Teresa, “ that you 
have made yourself very ridiculous this evening.” 

“ No doubt of it,” cried everybody — and the unfor- 
tunate Tom reduced himself into the least possible space. 
That night, Mr. and Mrs. Malderton had a long conver- 
sation respecting their daughter’s prospects and future 
arrangements. Miss Teresa Vent to bed, considering 
whether, in the event of her marrying a title, she could 
conscientiously encourage the visits of her present asso- 
ciates ; and dreamed, all night, of disguised noblemen, 
large routs, ostrich plumes, bridal favors, and Horatio 
Sparkins. 

Various surmises were hazarded on the Sunday morn- 
ing, as to the mode of conveyance which the anxiously 
expected Horatio would adopt. Did he keep a gig ? — 
was it possible he could come on horseback ? — or would 
he patronize the stage ? These, and various other con- 
jectures of equal importance, engrossed the attention of 
Mrs. Malderton and her daughters during the whole 
morning after church. 

Upon my word, my dear, it’s a most annoying thing 
that that vulgar brother of yours should have invited 
himself to dine here to-day,” said Mr. Malderton to his 


150 


SKETCHES BY BOZ. 


wife. “ On account of Mr. Sparkins’s coming down, 1 
purposely abstained from asking anyone but Flam well. 
And then to think of your brother — a tradesman — it’s 
insufferable ! I declare I wouldn’t have him mention his 
shop, before our new guest — no, not for a thousand 
pounds ! I wouldn’t care if he had the good sense to 
conceal the disgrace he is to the family ; but he’s so fond 
of his horrible business, that he will let people know 
what he is.” 

Mr. Jacob Barton, the individual alluded to, was a 
large grocer ; so vulgar, and so lost to all sense of feel- 
ing, that he actually never scrupled to avow that he 
wasn’t above his business : ‘‘ he’d made his money by it, 
and he didn’t care who know’d it.” 

Ah ! Flam well, my dear fellow, how d’ye do ? ” said 
Mr Malderton, as a little spoffish man, wdth green spec- 
tacles, ent^i^’ed the room. You got my note ? ” 

“Yes, I did ; and here I am in consequence.” 

“ You don’t happen to know this Mr. Sparkins by 
name ? You know everybody ? ” 

Mr. Flam well was one of those gentlemen of remark- 
ably extensive information whom one occasionally meets 
in society, who pretend to know everybody, but in reality 
know nobody. At Malderton’s, where any stories about 
great people were received with a greedy ear, he was 
an especial favorite ; and, knowing the kind of people 
he had to deal with, he carried his passion of claiming 
acquaintance with everybody to the most immoderate 
length. He had rather a singular way of telling his 
greatest lies in a parenthesis, and with an air of self- 
denial, as if he feared being thought egotistical. 

“ Why, no, I don’t know him by that name,” returned 
Flamwell, in a low tone, and with an air of immense 


HORATIO SPARKINS. 


151 


importance. “ I have no doubt I know him, though. 
Is he tall ? ” 

Middle-sized,” said Miss Teresa. 

“ M^ith black hair ? ” inquired Flamwell, hazarding a 
bold guess. 

‘‘ Yes,” returned Miss Teresa, eagerly. 

“ Rather a snub nose ? ” 

No,” said the disappointed Teresa, “ he has a Roman 
nose.” 

“ I said a Roman nose, didn’t I ? ” inquired flamwell. 
“ He’s an elegant young man ? ” 

“ Oh, certainly.” 

“ With remarkably prepossessing manners ? ” 

“ Oh, yes ! ” said all the family together. “ You must 
know him.” 

“ Yes, I thought you knew him, if he was anybody,” 
triumphantly exclaimed Mr. Malderton. “ Who d’ye 
think he is ? ” 

“ Why, from your description,” said Flamwell, rumi- 
nating, and sinking his voice, almost to a whisper, “ he 
bears a strong resemblance to the Honorable Augustus 
Fitz-Edward Fitz-John Fitz-Osborne. He’s a very tal- 
ented young man, and rather eccentric. It’s extremely 
probable he may have changed his name for some tempo- 
rary purpose.” 

Teresa’s heart beat high. Could he be the Honorable 
Augustus Fitz-Edward Fitz-John Fitz-Osborne ! What 
a name to be elegantly engraved upon two glazed cards, 
tied together with a piece of white satin ribbon ! ‘‘ The 

Honorable Mrs. Augustus Fitz-Edward Fitz-John Fitz- 
Osborne ! ” The thought was transport. 

“ It’s five minutes to five,” said Mr. Malderton, looking 
at his watch : “ I hope he’s not going to disappoint us.” 


152 


SKETCHES BY BOZ. 


“ There he is ! ” exclaimed Miss Teresa, as a loud 
double-knock was heard at the door. Everybody en- 
deavored to look — as people when they particularly 
expect a visitor always do — as if they were perfectly 
unsuspicious of the approach of anybody. 

The room-door opened — “ Mr. Barton ! ” said the 
servant. 

“ Confound the man ! ” murmured Malderton. “ Ah ! 
my dear sir, how d’ye do ! Any news ? ” 

“ Why no,” returned the grocer, in his usual bluflP 
manner. “ No, none partickler. None that I am much 
aware of. How d'ye do, gals and boys? Mr. Flam well, 
sir — glad to see you.” 

“ Here’s Mr. Sparkins ! ” said Tom, who had been 
looking out at the window, “ on such a black horse ! ” 
There was Horatio, sure enough, on a large black horse, 
curveting and prancing along, like an Astley’s supernu- 
merary. After a great deal of reining in, and pulling 
up, with the accompaniments of snorting, rearing, and 
kicking, the animal consented to stop at about a hundred 
yards from the gate, where Mr. Sparkins dismounted, and 
confided him to the care of Mr. Malderton's groom. Tlie 
ceremony of introducfion was gone through, in all due 
form. Mr. Flamwell looked from behind his green 
spectacles at Horatio with an air of mysterious impor- 
tance ; and the gallant Horatio looked unutterable things 
at Teresa. 

“ Is he the Honorable Mr. Augustus what's his 
name ? ” whispered Mrs. Malderton to Flamwell, as he 
was escorting her to the dining-room. 

“ Why, no — at least not exactly,” returned that great 
authority — ‘‘ not exactly.” 

“ Who is he then p ” 


HOKATIO SPAKKINS. 


153 


“ Hush ! ” said Flamwell, nodding his head with a 
grave air, importing that he knew very well ; but was 
prevented, by some grave reasons of state, from disclos- 
ing the important secret. It might be one of the minis- 
ters making himself acquainted with the views of the 
people. 

‘‘ Mr. Sparkins,”' said the delighted Mrs. Malderton, 
“ pray divide the ladies. John, put a chair for the gen- 
tleman between Miss Teresa and Miss Marianne.” This 
was addressed to a man who, on ordinary occasions, acted 
as half-groom, half-gardener ; but who, as it was impor- 
tant to make an impression on Mr. Sparkins, had been 
forced into a white neckerchief and shoes, and touched 
up, and brushed, to look like a second footman. 

The dinner was excellent ; Horatio was most attentive 
to Miss Teresa, and everyone felt in high spirits, except 
Mr. Malderton, who, knowing the propensity of his 
brother-in-law, Mr. Barton, endured that sort of agony 
wdiich the newspapers inform us is experienced by the 
surrounding neighborhood when a pot-boy hangs himself 
in a hay-loft, and which is “ much easier to be imagined 
than described.” 

“ Plave you seen your friend. Sir Thomas Noland, 
lately, Flamwell ? ” inquired Mr. Malderton, casting a 
sidelong look at Horatio, to see what effect the mention 
of so great a man had upon him. 

“ Why, no — not very lately. I saw Lord Gubbleton 
the day before yesterday.” 

Ah ! I hope his lordship is very well ? ” said Malder- 
ton, in a tone of the greatest interest. It is scarcely ne- 
cessary to say that, until that moment, he had been quite 
innocent of the existence of such a person. 

‘‘ Why, 3"es; he w^as very well — very well indeed. 


151 


SKETCHES BY BOZ. 


He’s a devilish good fellow. T met him in the City, and 
had a long chat with him. Indeed, I’m rather intimate 
with him. I couldn’t stop to talk to him as long as I 
could wish, though, because I was on my way to a bank- 
er’s, a very rich man, and a member of Parliament, with 
whom I am also rather, indeed I may say very, inti- 
mate.” 

“ I know whom you mean,” returned the host, con- 
sequentially — in reality knowing as much about the 
matter as Flamwell himself. “ He has a capital busi- 
ness.” 

This was touching on a dangerous topic. 

“ Talking of business,” interposed Mr. Barton, from 
the centre of the table. A gentleman whom you 
knew very well, Malderton, before you made that first 
lucky spec of yours, called at our shop the other day, 
and — ” 

“ Barton, may I trouble you for a potato,” interrupted 
the wretched master of the house, hoping to nip the story 
in the bud. 

“ Certainly,” returned the grocer, quite insensible of 
his brother-in-law’s object — “and he said in a very 
plain manner — ” 

“ Floury^ if you please,” interrupted Malderton again ; 
dreading the termination of the anecdote, and fearing a 
repetition of the word “ shop.” 

“ He said, says he,” continued the culprit, after de- 
spatching the potato ; “ says he, how goes on your busi- 
ness ? So I said, jokingly — you know my way — says 
I, I’m never above my business, and I hope my business 
will never be above me. Ha, ha ! ” 

“Mr. Sparkins,” said the host, vainly endeavoring to 
conceal his dismay, “ a glass of wine ? ” 


HORATIO SPARKINS. 


155 


‘‘ With the utmost pleasure, sir.” 

“ Happy to see you.” 

Thank you.” 

We were talking the other evening,” resumed the 
host, addressing Horatio, partly with the view of dis- 
playing the conversational powers of his new acquaint- 
ance, and partly in the hope of drowning the grocer’s 
stories — “ we were talking the other night about the 
nature of man. Your argument struck me very forcibly.” 

“And me,” said Mr. Frederick. Horatio made a 
graceful inclination of the head. 

“ Pray, what is your opinion of woman, Mr. Spar- 
kins ? ” inquired Mrs. Malderton. The young ladies 
simpered. 

“ ]Man,” replied Ploratio, “ man, whether he ranged 
the bright, gay, flowery plains of a second Eden, or the 
more sterile, barren, and I may say commonplace re- 
gions, to which we are compelled to accustom ourselves, 
in times such as these ; man, under any circumstance, or 
in any place — whether he were bending beneath the 
witherins: blasts of the frigid zone, or scorching under 
the rays of a vertical sun — man, without woman, would 
be — alone.” 

“ 1 am very happy to find you entertain such honor- 
able opinions, Mr. Sparkins,” said Mrs. Malderton. 

“ And I,” added Miss Teresa. Horatio looked his de- 
light, and the young lady blushed. 

“ Now it’s my opinion,” said Mr. Barton — 

“ I know what you’re going to say,” interposed Mal- 
derton, determined not to give his relation another oppor- 
tunity, “ and I don’t agree with you.” 

What ? ” inquired the astonished grocer. 

“ I am sorry to differ from yon, Barton,” said the host, 


156 


SKETCHES BY BOZ. 


in as positive a manner as if he really were contradi(,t- 
ing a position w^hich the other had laid down, “ but I 
cannot give my assent to what I consider a very monstrous 
proposition.’’ 

But I meant to say — ” 

“ You never can convince me,” said Malderton, with 
an air of obstinate determination. “ Never.” 

“And I,” said Mr. Frederick, following up his father’s 
attack, “ cannot entirely agree in Mr. Sparkins’s argu- 
ment.” 

“ What ! ” said Horatio, who became more metaphysi- 
cal, and more argumentative, as he saw the female part 
of the family listening in wondering delight — “What! 
Is effect the consequence of cause? Is cause the pre- 
cursor of effect ? ” 

“ That’s the point,” said Flamwell. 

“ To be sure,” said Mr. Malderton. 

“ Because, if effect is the consequence of cause, and if 
cause does precede effect, I apprehend you are wrong,” 
added Horatio. 

“ Decidedly,” said the toad-eating Flamwell. 

“ At least, I apprehend that to be the just and logical 
deduction ? ” said Sparkins, in a tone of interrogation. 

“ No doubt of it,” chimed in Flamwell again. “ It 
settles the point.” 

“ Well, perhaps it does,” said Mr. Frederick ; “ I 
didn’t see it before.” 

“ I don’t exactly see it now,” thought the grocer ; 
“ but I suppose it’s all right.” 

“ How wonderfully clever he is I ” whispered Mrs. 
Malderton to her daughters, as they retired to the 
drawing-room. 

“ Oh, he’s quite a love ! ” said both the young ladies 


HORATIO SPARKINS. 


157 


together ; “ he talks like an oracle. He must have seen 
a great deal of life ! ” 

The gentlemen being left to themselves, a pause en- 
sued, during which everybody looked very grave, as if 
they were quite overcome by the profound nature of the 
previous discussion. Flamwell, who had made up his 
mind to find out who and what Mr. Horatio Sparkins 
really was, first broke silence. 

“ Excuse me, sir,” said that distinguished personage, 
“ I presume you have studied for the bar ? I thought 
of entering once, myself — indeed, I’m rather intimate 
with some of the highest ornaments of that distinguished 
profession.” 

N — no ! ” said Horatio, with a little hesitation ; “not 
exactly.” 

“ But you have been much among the silk gowns, or I 
mistake ? ” inquired Flamwell, deferentially. 

“ Nearly all my life,” returned Sparkins. 

The question was thus pretty well settled in the mind 
of Mr. Flamwell. He was a young gentleman “ about 
to be called.” 

“ I shouldn’t like to be a barrister,” said Tom, speak- 
ing for the first time, and looking round the table to find 
somebody who would notice the remark. 

No one made any reply. 

“ I shouldn’t like to wear a wig,” said Tom, hazarding 
another observation. 

“ Tom, I beg you will not make yourself ridiculous,” 
said his father. “ Pray listen, and improve yourself by 
the conversation you hear, and don’t be constantly mak- 
ing these absurd remarks.” 

“ Very well, father,” replied the unfortunate Tom, who 
had not spoken a word since he had asked for another 


158 


SKETCHES BY BOZ. 


slice of beef at a quarter past five o’clock p. m., and it 
was then eight. 

“ Well, Tom,” observed his good-natured uncle, never 
mind ! I think with you. 1 shouldn’t like to wear a 
wig. I’d rather wear an apron.” 

Mr. Malderton coughed violently. Mr. Barton re- 
sumed — ‘‘For if a man’s above his business — ” 

The cough returned with tenfold violence, and did not 
cease until the unfortunate cause of it, in his alarm, had 
quite forgotten what he intended to say. 

“ Mr. Sparkins,” said Flamwell, returning to the 
charge, “ do you happen to know Mr. Delafontaine, of 
Bedford Square ? ” 

“ I have exchanged cards with him ; since which, in- 
deed, I have had an opportunity of serving liim consid- 
erably,” replied Horatio, slightly coloring ; no doubt, at 
having been betrayed into making the acknowledgment. 

“ You are very lucky, if you have had an opportunity 
of obliging that great man,” observed Flamwell, with an 
air of profound respect. 

“ I don’t knoAV who he is,” he whispered to Mr. Mal- 
derton, confidentially, as they followed Horatio up to the 
drawing-room. “ It’s quite clear, however, that he be- 
longs to the law, and that he is somebody of great impor- 
tance, and very highly connected.” 

“ No doubt, no doubt,” returned his companion. 

Tlie remainder of the evening passed away most de- 
lightfully. Mr. Malderton, relieved from his apprehen- 
sions by the circumstance of Mr. Barton’s falling into a 
profound sleep, was as affable and gracious as possible. 
Miss Teresa played the “ Fall of Paris,” as Mr. Spar- 
kins declared, in a most masterly manner, and both of 
them, assisted by Mr. Frederick, tried over glees and 


HORATIO SPAKKINS. 


159 


trios without number ; they having made the pleasing 
discovery that their voices harmonized beautifully. To 
be sure, they all sang the first part ; and Horatio, in ad- 
dition to the slight drawback of having no ear, was per- 
fectly innocent of knowing a note of music; still, they 
passed the time very agreeably, and it was past twelve 
o’clock before Mr. Sparkins ordered the mourning-coach- 
looking steed to be brought out — an order which was 
only complied with on the distinct understanding that he 
was to repeat his visit on the following Sunday. 

“ But, perhaps, Mr. Sparkins will form one of our 
party to-morrow evening ? ” suggested Mrs. M. ‘‘ Mr. 
Malderton intends taking the girls to see the panto- 
mime.” ]Mr. Sparkins bowed, and promised to join the 
party in box 48, in the course of the evening. 

We will not tax you for the morning,” said Miss 
Teresa, bewitchingly ; “ for ma is going to take us to all 
sorts of places, shopping. I know that gentlemen have 
a great horror of that employment.” Mr. Sparkins 
bowed again, and declared that he should be delighted, 
but business of importance occupied him in the morning. 
Flam well looked at Malderton significantly — “ It’s term 
time ! ” he whispered. 

At twelve o’clock on the following morning, the “ fiy ” 
was at the door of Oak Lodge, to convey Mrs. Malderton 
and her daughters on their expedition for the day. They 
were to dine and dress for the play at a friend's house. 
First, driving thither with their bandboxes, they de- 
parted on their first errand to make some purchases at 
Messrs. Jones, Spruggins, and Smith’s, of Tottenham 
Court Road ; after which they were to go to Red- 
mayne’s in Bond Street ; thence, to innumerable places 
that no one ever heard of. The young ladies beguiled 


160 


SKETCHES BY BOZ. 


the tediousness of the ride by eulogizing Mr. Horatio 
Sparkins, scolding their mamma for taking them so far to 
save a shilling, and wondering whether they should ever 
reach their destination. At length, the vehicle stopped 
before a dirty looking ticketed linen-draper’s shop, with 
goods of all kinds, and labels of all sorts and sizes, in 
the windoAv. There were dropsical figures of seven with 
a little three-farthings in the corner ; perfectly invisible 
to the naked eye ; ” three hundi*ed and fifty thousand 
ladies’ boas, from one shilling and a penny halfpenny ; 
real French kid shoes, at tAVO and ninepence per pair ; 
green parasols, at an equally cheap rate ; and every 
description of goods,” as the proprietors said — and they 
must know best — “ fifty per cent, under cost-price.” 

“ Lor ! ma, what a place you have brought us to ! ” 
said Miss Teresa ; ‘‘ Avhat would Mr. Sparkins say if he 
could see us ! ” 

“ Ah ! Avhat, indeed ! ” said Miss Marianne, horrified 
at the idea. 

“ Pray be seated, ladies. What is the first article ? ” 
inquired the obsequious master of the ceremonies of the 
establishment, who, in his large Avhite neckcloth and 
formal tie, looked like a bad “ portrait of a gentleman ” 
in the Somerset House exhibition. 

“ I Avant to see some silks,” ansAvered Mrs. Malderton. 

Directly, ma’am. — Mr. Smith ! Where is Mr. 
Smith ? ” 

“ Here, sir,” cried a voice at the back of the shop. 

‘‘ Pray make haste, Mr. Smith,” said the M. C. “ You 
never are to be found when you're Avanted, sir.” 

Mr. Smith, thus enjoined to use all possible despatch, 
leaped over the counter with great agility, and placed 
himself before the ncAvly arrived customers. Mrs. Mai- 


HOKATIO SPARKINS. 


IGl 


derton uttered a faint scream ; Miss Teresa, who had 
been stooping down to talk to her sister, raised her head, 
and beheld — Horatio Spark ins ! 

“We will draw a veil,” as novel-writers say, over the 
scene that ensued. The mysterious, philosophical, ro- 
mantic, metaphysical Sparkins — he wdio, to the interest- 
ing Teresa, seemed like the embodied idea of the young 
dukes and poetical exquisites in blue silk dressing-gowms, 
and ditto ditto slippers, of wdiom she had read and 
dreamed, but had never expected to behold, w^as sud- 
denly converted into Mr. Samuel Smith, the assistant at 
a “ (3heap shop ; ” the junior partner in a slippery firm 
of some three weeks’ existence. The dignified evanish- 
ment of the hero of Oak Lodge, on this unexpected 
recognition, could only be equalled by that of a furtive 
dog wfith a considerable kettle at his tail. All the hopes 
of the Maldertons wxre destined at once to melt away, 
like the lemon ices at a Company’s dinner; Almacks 
w^as still to them as distant as the North Pole ; and Miss 
Teresa had as much chance of a husband as Captain 
Ross had of the northw^est passage. 

Years have elapsed since the occurrence of this dread- 
ful morning. The daisies have thrice bloomed on Cam- 
berw^ell Green ; the sparrows have thrice repeated their 
vernal chirps in Camberw^^ll Grove ; but the Miss Mal- 
dertons are still unmated. Miss Teresa’s case is more 
desperate than ever ; but Flamwell is yet in the zenith 
of his reputation ; and the family have the same predi- 
lection for aristocratic personages, with an increased 
aversion to anything low. 


VOL. II. 


11 


SKETCHES BY BOZ. 


]Gl> 


CHAPTER VI. 

THE BLACK VEIL. 

One winter’s evening towards the close of the year 
1800, or within a year or two of that time, a young 
medical practitioner, recently established in business, 
was seated by a cheerful fire, in his little parlor, hsten- 
ing to the wind which was beating the rain in pattering 
drops against the window, and rumbling dismally in the 
chimney. The night was wet and cold ; he had been 
walking through mud and water the whole day, and was 
now comfortably reposing in his dressing-gown and slip- 
pers, more than half asleep and less than half awake, 
revolving a thousand matters in his wandering imagina- 
tion. First, he thought how hard the wind was blowing, 
and how the cold, sharp rain would be at that moment 
beating in his face, if he were not comfortably housed at 
home. Then, his mind reverted to his annual Chi'istmas 
visit to his native place and dearest friends ; he thought 
how glad they would all he to see him, and how happy 
it would make Rose if he could only tell her that he had 
found a patient at last, and hoped to have more, and to 
come down again, in a few months’ time, and marry her, 
and take her home to gladden his lonely fireside, and 
stimulate him to fresh exertions. Then, he began to 
wonder when his first patient would appear, or whether 
he was destined, by a special dispensation of Providence, 
never to have any patients at all ; and then, he thought 
about Rose again, and dropped to sleep and dreamed 


THE BLACK VEIL. 


163 


about her, till the tones of her sweet merry voice sounded 
in his ears, and her soft tiny hand rested on his shoul^r 

There was a hand upon his shoulder, but it was neither 
soft nor tiny ; its owner being a corpulent round-headed 
boy, who, in consideration of the sum of one shilling per 
week and his food, was let out by the parish to carry 
medicine and messages. As there was no demand for 
the medicine, however, and no necessity for the mes- 
sages, he usually occupied his unemployed hours — 
averaging fourteen a day — in abstracting peppermint 
drops, taking animal nourishment, and going to sleep. 

“ A lady, sir — a lady ! ” whispered the boy, rousing 
his master with a shake. 

“ What lady ? ” cried our friend, starting up, not quite 
certain that his dream was an illusion, and half expect- 
ing that it might be Rose herself. — “ What lady ? 
Where?” 

“ There^ sir ! ” replied the boy, pointing to the glass 
door leading into the surgery, with an expression of 
alarm which the very unusual apparition of a customer 
might have tended to excite. 

The surgeon looked towards the door, and started him- 
self, for an instant, on beholding the appearance of his 
unlooked-for visitor. 

It was a singularly tall woman, dressed in deep mourn- 
ing, and standing so close to the door that her face almost 
touched the glass. The upper part of her figure was care- 
fully muffled in a black shawl, as if for the purpose of 
concealment ; and her face was shrouded by a thick black 
veil. vShe stood perfectly erect ; her figure was drawn 
up to its full height, and though the surgeon jd?/^ that the 
eyes beneath the veil were fixed on him, she stood per- 
fectly motionless, and evinced, by no gesture whatever, 


164 


SKETCHES BY BOZ. 


the slightest consciousness of his having turned towards 

h^. 

“ Do you wish to consult me ? ” he inquired, with some 
hesitation, holding open the door. It opened inwards, 
and therefore the action did not alter the position of the 
figure, which still remained motionless on the same 
spot. 

She slightly inclined her head in token of acqui- 
escence. 

‘‘ Pray walk in,” said the surgeon. 

The figure moved a step forward ; and then, turning 
its head in the direction of the boy — to his infinite. hor- 
ror — appeared to hesitate. 

“ Leave the room, Tom,” said the young man, address- 
ing the boy, whose large round eyes had been extended 
to their utmost width during this brief interview. “ Draw 
the curtain, and shut the door.” 

The boy drew a green curtain across the glass part of 
the door, retired into the surgery, closed the door after 
him, and immediately applied one of his large eyes to 
the keyhole on the other side. 

The surgeon drew a chair to the fire, and motioned 
the visitor to a seat. The mysterious figure slowly 
moved towards it. As the blaze shone upon the black 
dress, tiie surgeon observed that the bottom of it was 
saturated with mud and rain. 

“ You are very wet,” he said. 

“ 1 am,” said the stranger, in a low deep voice. 

“ And you are ill ? ” added the surgeon, compassion- 
ately, for the tone was that of a person in pain. 

“ 1 am,” was the reply — very ill : not bodily, but 
mentally. It is not for myself, or on my own behalf,” 
continued the stranger, ‘‘ that I come to you. If I 


THE BLACK VEIL. 


165 


labored under bodily disease, I should not be out, alone, 
at such an hour, or on such a night as this; and if I 
were afflicted with it, twenty-four hours hence, God 
knows how ^adly I w’ould lie down and pray to die. 
It is for another that I beseech your aid, sir. I may be 
mad to ask it for him — I think I am ; but, night after 
night through the long dreary hours of watching and 
weeping, the thought has been ever present to my mind ; 
and though even /see the hopelessness of human assist- 
ance availing him, the bare thought of laying him in his 
grave without it makes my blood run cold ! ’’ And a 
shudder, such as the surgeon well knew art could not 
produce, trembled thrctugh the speaker’s frame. 

There was a desperate earnestness in this 'woman’s 
manner, that went to the young man’s heart. He was 
young in his profession, and had not yet witnessed enough 
of the miseries which are daily presented before the eyes 
of its members, to liave grown comparatively callous to 
human suffering. 

If,” he said, rising hastily, ‘‘ the person of whom you 
speak be in so hopeless a condition as you describe, not 
a moment is to be lost. I will go with you instantly. 
Why did you not obtain medical advice before ? ” 

“ Because it would have been useless before — be- 
cause it is useless even now,” replied the woman, clasp- 
ing her hands passionatelj . 

The surgeon gazed, for a moment, on the black veil, 
as if to ascertain the expression of the features beneath 
it ; its thickness, however, rendered such a result impos- 
sible. 

‘‘ You are ill,” he said, gently, although you do not 
know it. The fever which has enabled you to bear, 
without feeling, the fatigue you have evidently under- 


166 


SKETCHES BY BOZ. 


gone, is burning within you now^ Put that to your lips,” 
he continued, pouring out a glass of w ater — “ compose 
yourself for a few' moments, and then tell me, as calmly 
as you can, what the disease of the patient is, and how 
long he has been ill. When I know what it is necessary 
I should know, to render my visit serviceable to him, I 
am ready to accompany you.” 

The stranger lifted the glass of w^ater to her mouth, 
without raising the veil ; put it down again, untasted ; 
and burst into tears. 

1 know,” she said, sobbing aloud, that w hat I say 
to you now seems like the ravings of fever. I have 
been told so before, less kindly than by you. I am not 
a young woman ; and they do say, that as life steals on 
towards its final close, the last short remnant, worthless 
as it may seem to all beside, is dearer to its possessor 
than all the years that have gone before, connected 
though they be with the recollection of old friends 
long since , dead, and young ones — children perhaps — 
who have fallen off from, and forgotten one as com- 
pletely as if they had died too. My natural term of 
life cannot be many years longer, and should be dear on 
that account ; but I w’ould lay it dowm without a sigh — 
with cheerfulness — with joy — if what I tell you now 
were only false, or imaginary. To-morrow morning, he 
of whom I speak will be, I hnow^ though I w’ould fain 
think otherwise, beyond the reach of human aid ; and 
yet, to-night, though he is in deadly peril, you must not 
see, and could not serve, him.” 

“ I am unw'illing to increase your distress,” said the 
surgeon, after a short pause, “ by making any comment 
on what you have just said, or appearing desirous to in- 
vestigate a subject you are so anxious to conceal ; but 


THE BLACK VEIL. 


167 


there is an inconsistency in your statement which I can- 
not reconcile with probability. This person is dying 
to-night, and I cannot see him when my assistance might 
possibly avail ; yon apprehend it will be useless to-mor- 
row, and yet you would have me see him then ! If he 
be, indeed, as dear to you as your words and manner 
would imply, why not try to save his life before delay 
and the progress of his disease render it impracticable ? ” 
God help me ! ” exclaimed the woman, weeping bit- 
terly, “ how can I hope strangers will believe what ap- 
pears incredible even to myself? You will not see him 
then, sir ? ” she added, rising suddenly. 

I did not say that I declined to see him,” replied the 
surgeon ; “ but I warn you, that if you persist in this 
extraordinary procrastination, and the individual dies, a 
fearful responsibility rests with you.” 

“ The responsibility will rest heavily somewhere,” re- 
plied the stranger bitterly. “ Whatever responsibility 
rests with me, I am content to bear, and ready to an- 
swer.” 

“ As I incur none,” continued the surgeon, “ by acced- 
ing to your request, I will see him in the morning, if 
you leave me the address. And what hour can he be 
seen ? ” 

replied the stranger. 

“ You must excuse my pressing these inquiries,” said 
the surgeon. ‘‘ But is he in your charge now ? ” 

“ He is not,” was her rejoinder. 

“ Then, if I gave you instructions for his treatment 
through the night, you could not assist him ? ” 

The woman wept bitterly, as she replied, “ I could 
not.” 

Finding that there was but little prospect of obtaining 


168 


SKETCHES BY BOZ. 


more information by prolonging the interview ; and anx 
ions to spare the woman’s feelings, which, subdued at 
first by a violent effort, were now irrepressible and most 
painful to witness ; the surgeon repeated his promise of 
calling in the morning at the appointed hour. His 
visitor, after giving him a direction to an obscure part 
of Walworth, left the house in the same mysterious 
manner in which she had entered it. 

It will be readily believed that so extraordinary a visit 
produced a considerable impression on the mind of the 
young surgeon ; and that he speculated a great deal and 
to very little purpose on the possible circumstances of 
the case. In common with the generality of people, he 
had often heard and read of singular instances, in which 
a presentiment of death, at a particular day, or even 
minute, had been entertained and realized. At one 
moment he was inclined to think that the present might 
be such a case ; but, then, it occurred to him that all the 
anecdotes of the kind he had ever heard were of persons 
who had been troubled with a foreboding of their own 
death. This woman, .however, spoke of another person 
— a man ; and it was impossible to suppose that a mere 
dream or delusion of fancy would induce her to speak 
of his approaching dissolution with such terrible cer- 
tainty as she had spoken. It could not be that the man 
was to be murdered in the morning, and that the woman, 
originally a consenting party, and bound to secrecy by an 
oath, had relented, and, though unable to prevent the 
commission of some outrage on the victim, had deter- 
mined to prevent his death if possible, by the timely 
interposition of medical aid ? The idea of such things 
happening within two miles of the metropolis appeared 
too wild and preposterous to be entertained beyond the 


THE BLACK VEIL. 


189 


instant. Then, his original impression that the woman’s 
intellects were disordered, recurred ; and, as it was the 
only mode of solving the difficulty with any degree of 
satisfaction, he obstinately made up his mind to believe 
that she was mad. Certain misgivings upon this point, 
however, stole upon his thoughts at the time, and pre- 
sented themselves asfain and a^ain throuj^h the lonar dull 
course of a sleepless night : during which, in spite of all 
his efforts to the contrary, he was unable to banish the 
black veil from his disturbed imagination. 

The back part of Walworth, at its greatest distance 
from town, is a straggling miserable place enough, even in 
these days; but five-and-thirty years ago, the greater 
portion of it was little better than a dreary waste, in- 
habited by a few scattered people of questionable char- 
acter, whose poverty prevented their living in any better 
neighborhood, or whose pursuits and mode of life ren- 
dered its solitude desirable. Very many of the houses 
which have since sprung up on all sides w^ere not built 
until some years afterwards ; and the great majority 
even of those which were sprinkled about, at irregular 
intervals, were of the rudest and most miserable descrip- 
tion. 

The appearance of the place through which he walked 
in the morning was not calculated to raise the spirits of 
the young surgeon, or to dispel any feeling of anxiety 
or depression which the singular kind of visit he was 
about to make had awakened. Striking oft* from the 
high road, his way lay across a marshy common, through 
irregular lanes; with here and there a ruinous and dis- 
mantled cottage fast falling to pieces with decay and 
neglect. A stunted tree, or pool of stagnant water, 
roused into a sluggish action by the heavy rain of the 


170 


SKETCHES BY BOZ. 


preceding night, skirted the path occasionally ; and, now 
and then, a miserable patch of garden-ground, with a 
few old boards knocked together for a summer-house, 
and old palings imperfectly mended with stakes pilfered 
from the neighboring hedges, bore testimony, at once, 
to the poverty of the inhabitants, and the little scruple 
they entertained in appropriating the property of other 
people to their own use. Occasionally, a filtliy looking 
woman would make her appearance from the door of a 
dirty house, to empty the contents of some cooking 
utensil into the gutter in front, or to scream after a little 
slip-shod girl who had contrived to stagger a few yards 
from the door under the weight of a sallow infant almost 
as big as herself ; but, scarcely anything was stirring 
around ; and so much of the prospect as could be faintly 
traced through the cold damp mist which hung heavily 
over it, presented a lonely and dreary appearance per- 
fectly in keeping with the objects we have described. 

After })iodding wearily through the mud and mire ; 
making many inquiries for the place to which he had 
been directed ; and receiving as many contradictory and 
unsatisfactory replies in return ; the young man at length 
arrived before the house which had been pointed out to 
him as the object of his destination. It was a small low 
building, one story above the ground, with even a more 
desolate and unpromising exterior than any he had yet 
passed. An old yellow curtain was closely drawn across 
the window up-stairs, and the parlor shutters were closed, 
but not fastened. The house was detached from any 
other, and, as it stood at an angle of S narrow lane, 
there was no other habitation in sight. 

When we say that the surgeon hesitated, and walked 
a few paces beyond the house, before he could prevail 


THE BLACK VEIL. 


171 


upon himself to lift the knocker, we say nothing that 
need raise a smile upon the face of the boldest reader 
The police of London were a very different body in that 
day ; the isolated position of the suburbs, when the rage 
for building and the progress of improvement had not 
yet begun to connect them with the main body of the 
city and its environs, rendered many of them (and this 
in particular) a place of resort for the worst and most 
depraved characters. Even the streets in the gayest 
parts of London were imperfectly lighted at that time, 
and such places as these were left entirely at the mercy 
of the moon and stars. The chances of detecting des- 
perate characters, or of tracing them to their haunts, 
were thus rendered very few, and their offences naturally 
increased in boldness, as the consciousness of compara- 
tive security became the more impressed upon them by 
daily experience. Added to these considerations, it must 
be remembered that the young man had spent some time 
in the public hospitals, of the metropolis ; and, although 
neither Burke nor Bishop had then gained a horrible 
notoriety, his own observation might havg suggested to 
him how easily the atrocities to which the former has 
since given his name might be committed.^ Be this as 
it may, whatever reflection made him hesitate, he did 
hesitate ; but, being a young man of strong mind and 
great personal courage, it was only for an instant ; — he 
stepped briskly back, and knocked gently at the door. 

A low whispering was audible, immediately after- 
wards, as if some person at the end of the passage were 
conversing stealthily with another on the landing above. 
It was succeeded by the noise of a pair of heavy boots 
upon the bare floor. The door-chain was softly unfas- 
tened ; the door opened ; and a tall, ill-favored man, with 


172 


SKETCHES BY BOZ. 


black hair, and a face as the surgeon often declared 
afterwards as pale and haggard as the countenance of 
any dead man he ever saw, presented himself. 

“ Walk in, sir,” he said in a low tone. 

The surgeon did so, and the man, having secured the 
door again, by the chain, led the way to a small back 
parlor at the extremity of the passage. 

“ Am I in time ? ” 

‘‘ Too soon ! ” replied the man. The surgeon turned 
hastily round, with a gesture of astonishment not un- 
mixed with alarm, which he found it impossible to re- 
press. 

“ If you’ll step in here, sir,” said the man, who had 
evidently noticed the action — “ if you’ll step in here, 
sir, you won’t be detained five minutes, I assure you.” 

The surgeon at once walked into the room. The man 
closed the door, and left him alone. 

It was a little cold room, with no other furniture than 
two deal chairs, and a table of the same material. A 
handful of fire, unguarded by any fender, was burning in 
the grate, which brought out the damp if it served no 
more comfortable purpose, for the unwholesome moisture 
was Stealings dowm the walls, in long, slug-like tracks. 
The window, which w^as broken and patched in many 
places, looked into a small enclosed piece of ground, 
almost covered with water. Not a sound was to be 
heard, either within the house, or without. The young 
surgeon sat down by the fireplace, to await the result of 
his first professional visit. 

He had not remained in this position many minutes, 
when the noise of some approaching vehicle struck his 
ear. It stopped ; the street-door was opened ; a low 
talking succeeded, accompanied with a shuflling noise of 


THE BLACK VEIL. 


178 


footsteps, along the passage and on the stairs, as if two 
or three men were engaged in carrying some heavy body 
to the room above. The creaking of the stairs, a few 
seconds afterwards, announced that the new comers hav- 
ing completed their task, whatever it was, were leaving 
the house. The door was again closed, and the former 
silence was restored. 

Another five minutes elapsed, and the surgeon had 
resolved to explore the house, in search of some one to 
whom he might make his errand knowni, when the room- 
door opened, and his last night’s visitor, dressed in ex- 
actly the same manner, with the veil lowered as before, 
motioned him to advance. The singular height of her 
form, coupled with the circumstance of her not speaking, 
caused the idea to pass across his brain, for an instant, 
that it might be a man disguised in woman’s attire. The 
hysteric sobs wdiich issued from beneath the veil, and the 
convulsive attitude of grief of the wdiole figure, how- 
ever, at once exposed the absurdity of the suspicion ; 
and he hastily followed. 

The woman led the way up-stairs to the front room, 
and paused at the door, to let him enter first. It was 
scantily furnished with an old deal box, a few chairs, and 
a tent bedstead, without hangings or cross-rails, which 
Avas covered with a patchwork counterpane. The dim 
light admitted through the curtain which he had noticed 
from the outside, rendered the objects in the room so in- 
distinct, and communicated to all of them so uniform a 
hue, that he did not, at first, perceive the object on which 
his eye at once rested when the w^oman rushed franti- 
cally past him, and flung herself on her knees by the 
bedside. 

Stretched upon the bed, closely enveloped in a linen 


174 


SKETCHES BY BOZ. 


wrapper, and covered with blankets, lay a human form; 
stiff and motionless. The head and face, which were 
those of a man, were uncovered, save by a bandage 
which passed over the head and under the chin. The 
eyes were closed. The left arm lay heavily across the 
bed, and the woman held the passive hand. 

The surgeon gently pushed the woman aside, and took 
the hand in his. 

“ My God ! ” he exclaimed, letting it fall involuntarily 
— “ the man is dt^ad ! ” 

The woman started to her feet and beat her hands to- 
gether. “ Oh ! don’t say so, sir,” she exclaimed, with a 
burst of passion, amounting almost to frenzy. “ Oh ! 
don’t say so, sir ! I can’t bear it ! Men have been 
brought to life, before, when unskilful people have given 
them up for lost ; and men have died, who might have 
been restored, if proper means had been resorted to. 
Don’t let him lie here, sir, without one effort to save 
him ! This very moment life may be passing away. 
Do try, sir, — do, for Heaven’s sake ! ” — And while 
speaking, she hurriedly chafed, first the forehead, and 
then the breast, of the senseless form before her ; and 
then wildly beat the cold hands, which when she ceased 
to hold them, fell listlessly and heavily back on the 
coverlet. 

‘‘It is of no use, my good woman,” said the surgeon 
soothingly, as he withdrew his hand from the man’s 
breast. ‘‘ Stay — undraw that curtain ! ” 

“ Why ? ” said the woman, starting up. 

“ Undraw that curtain ! ” repeated the surgeon, in an 
agitated tone. 

“ I darkened the room on purpose,” said the woman, 
throwing herself before him as he rose to undraw it. — 


THE BLACK VEIL. 


175 


“ Oh ! sir, have pity on me ! If it can be of no use, and 
he is really dead, do not expose that form to other eyes 
than mine ! ” 

“ This man died no natural or easy death,’’ said the 
surgeon. “ I must see the body ! ” With a motion so 
sudden, that the woman hardly knew that he had slipped 
from beside her, he tore open the curtain, admitted the 
full light of day, and returned to the bedside. 

“ There has been violence here,” he said, pointing to- 
wards the body, and gazing intently on the face, fron 
wliich the black veil was now, for the first time, removed 
In the excitement of a minute before, the female hao 
thrown off the bonnet and veil, and now stood with her 
eyes fixed upon him. Her features were those of a 
woman of about fifty, who had once been handsome. 
Sorrow and weeping had left traces upon them which not 
time itself would ever have produced without their aid ; 
her face was deadly pale ; and there was a nervous con- 
tortion of the lip, and an unnatural fire in her eye, which 
showed too plainly that her bodily and mental powers 
had nearlj^ sunk beneath an accumulation of misery. 

‘‘ There has been violence here,” said the surgeon, pre- 
serving his searching glance. 

‘‘ There has ! ” replied the woman. 

This man has been murdered.” 

“ That I call God to witness he has,” said the woman, 
passionately ; “ pitilessly, inhumanly murdered ! ” 

“ By whom ? ” said the surgeon, seizing the woman by 
the arm. 

‘‘ Look at the butchers’ marks, and then ask me ! ” she 
replied. 

The surgeon turned liis face towards the bed, and bent 
over the body which now lay full in the light of the win- 


176 


SKETCHES BY BOZ. 


dow. The throat was swollen, and a livid mark encircled 
it. The truth flashed suddenly upon him. 

“ This is one of the men who were hanged this morn- 
ing ! ” he exclaimed, turning away with a shudder. 

It is,” replied the woman, with a cold, unmeaning 
stare. 

Who was he ? ” inquired the surgeon. 

‘‘ My son'^ rejoined the woman ; and fell senseless at 
his feet. 

It was true. A companion, equally guilty with him- 
self, had been acquitted for want of evidence ; and this 
man had been left for death, and executed. To recount 
the circumstances of the case, at this distant period, must 
be unnecessary, and might give pain to some persons still 
alive. The history was an every-day one. The mother 
Avas a widow without friends or money, and had denied 
herself necessai ies to bestow them on her orphan boy. 
That boy, unmindful of her prayers, and forgetful of the 
sufferings she had endured for him — incessant anxiety 
of mind, and voluntary starvation of body — had plunged 
into a career of dissipation and crime. And this was 
the result : his own death by the hangman’s hands, and 
his mother’s shame, and incurable insanity. 

For many years after this occurrence, and when, profit- 
able and arduous avocations would have led many men 
to forget that such a miserable being existed, the young 
surgeon was a daily visitor at the side of the harmless 
mad woman ; not only soothing her by his presence and 
kindness, but alleviating the rigor of her condition by 
pecuniary donations for her comfort and support, be- 
stowed with no sparing hand. In the transient gleam of 
recollection and consciousness which preceded her death, 
d prayer for his welfare and protection, as fervent as 


THE STEAM EXCUKSION. 


177 


mortal ever breathed, rose from the lips of this poor 
friendless creature. The prayer flew to Heaven and was 
heard. The blessings he was instrumental in conferring, 
have been repaid to him a thousand-fold ; but, amid all 
the honors of rank and station which have since been 
heaped upon him, and which he has so w'ell earned, he 
can have no reminiscence more gratifying to his heart 
than that connected with The Black Veil. 


CHAPTER VII. 

THE STEAM EXCURSION. 

Mr. Percy Noakes vras a law-student, inhabiting a 
set of chambers on the fourth floor, in one of those houses 
in Gray’s Inn Square which command an extensive view 
of the gardens, and their usual adjuncts — flaunting 
nursery-maids, and town-made children, with parenthet- 
ical legs. Mr. Percy Noakes was what is generally 
termed — “a devilish good fellow.” He had a large circle 
of acquaintance, and seldom dined at his own expense. 
He used to talk politics to papas, flatter the vanity of 
mammas, do the amiable to their daughters, make pleas- 
ure engagements with their sons, and romp with the 
younger branches. Like those paragons of peidection, 
advertising footmen out of place, he was always “ willing 
to make himself generally useful.” If any old lady, 
whose son was in India, gave a ball, Mr. Percy Noakes 
was master of the ceremonies ; if any young lady made 
a stolen match, Mr. Percy Noakes gave her away ; if a 
1-1 


vnT>. Tt. 


178 


SKETCHES BY BOZ. 


juvenile wife presented her husband with a blooming 
cherub, Mr. Percy Noakes was either godfather, or 
deputy godfather ; and if any member of a friend’s 
family died, Mr. Percy Noakes was invariably to be seen 
in the second mourning coach, with a white handkerchief 
to liis eyes, sobbing — to use his own appropriate and 
expressive description — “ like winkin ! ” 

It may readily be imagined that these numerous avo- 
cations were rather calculated to interfere with Mr. Percy 
Noakes’s professional studies. Mr. Percy Noakes was 
perfectly aware of the fact, and liad, therefore, after 
mature reflection, made up his mind not to study at all 
— a laudable determination, to which he adhered in the 
most praiseworthy manner. His sitting-room presented 
a strange chaos of dress-gloves, boxing-gloves, carica- 
tures, albums, invitation-cards, foils, cricket-bats, card- 
board drawings, paste, gum, and fifty other miscellaneous 
articles, heaped together in the strangest confusion. He 
was always making something for somebody, or planning 
some party of pleasure, which was his great forte. He 
invariably spoke with astonishing rapidity ; was smart, 
spoffisli, and eight-and-tw^enty. 

“ Splendid idea, ’pon my life ! ” soliloquized Mr. Percy 
Noakes, over his morning’s coffee, as his mind reverted 
to a suggestion which had been thrown out on the pre- 
vious night, by a lady at whose house he had spent the 
evening. “ Glorious idea ! — Mrs. Stubbs.” 

‘‘ Yes, sir,” replied a dirty old woman with an inflamed 
countenance, emerging from the bedroom, with a barrel 
of dirt and cinders. — This was the laundress. “ Did 
you call, sir ! ” 

“ Oh ! Mrs. Tubbs, I’m going out. If that tailor 
should call again, you’d better say — you’d better say 


THE STEAM EXCUKSION. 


179 


Tin out of town, and shan't be back for a fortnight ; and 
if that bootmaker should come, tell him I’ve lost his ad- 
dress, or I’d have sent him that little amount. Mind he 
writes it down; and if Mr. Hardy should call — you 
know Mr. Hardy ? ” 

“ The funny gentleman, sir ? ” 

“ Ah ! the funny gentleman. If Mr. Hardy should 
call, say I’ve gone to Mrs. Taunton's about that water- 
party.” 

‘‘ Yes, sir.” 

‘‘ And if any fellow calls, and says he’s come about a 
steamer, tell him to be here at five o’clock this afternoon, 
Mrs. Stubbs.” 

“ Very well, sir.” 

Mr. Percy Noakes brushed his hat, whisked the 
crumbs off his inexplicables with a silk handkerchief, 
gave the ends of his hair a persuasive roll round his 
forefinger, and sallied forth for Mrs. Taunton’s domicile 
in Great Marlborough Street, where she and her daugh- 
ters occupied the upper part of a house. She was a 
good-looking widow of fifty, with the form of a giantess 
and the mind of a child. The pursuit of pleasure, and 
some means of killing time, were the sole end of her 
existence. She doted on her daughters, who were as 
frivolous as herself. 

A general exclamation of satisfaction hailed the arri- 
val of Mr. Percy Noakes, who went threw the ordinary 
salutations, and threw himself into an easy-chair near 
the ladies’ work-table, with the ease of a regularly estab- 
lished friend of the family. Mrs. Taunton was busily 
engaged in planting immense bright bows on every part 
of a smart cap on which it was possible to stick one ; Miss 
Emily Taunton was making a watchguard ; Miss Sophia 


180 


SKETCHES BY BOZ. 


was at the piano, practising a new song — poetry by the 
young officer, or the police-officer, or the custom-house 
officer, or some other interesting amateur. 

“ You good creature ! ” said Mrs. Taunton, addressing 
the gallant Percy. “ You really are a good soul ! You’ve 
come about the water-party, I know.” 

‘‘ I should rather suspect I had,” replied Mr. Noakes, 
triumphantly. “ Now come here, girls, and I’ll tell you 
all about it.” Miss Emily and Miss Sophia advanced to 
the table. 

“ Now,” continued Mr. Percy Noakes, “ it seems to me 
that the best way will be, to have a committee of ten, to 
make all the arrangements, and manage the whole set- 
out. Then, 1 propose that the expenses shall be paid 
by these ten fellows jointly.” 

“ Excellent, indeed ! ” said Mrs. Taunton, who highly 
approved of this part of the arrangements. 

‘‘ Then, my plan is, that each of these ten fellows shall 
have the power of asking five people. There must be a 
meeting of the committee, at ray chambers, to make all 
the arrangements, and these people shall be then named ; 
every member of the committee shall have the power of 
black-balling any one who is proposed ; and one black 
ball shall exclude that person. This will insure our 
having a pleasant party, you know.” 

“ What a manager you are ! ” interrupted Mrs. 
Taunton again. 

‘‘ Charming ! ” said the lovely Emily. 

“ I never did ! ” ejaculated Sophia. 

“ Yes, I think it’ll do,” replied Mr. Percy Noakes, who 
was now quite in his element. “ I think it‘11 do. Then 
you know we shall go down to the Nore, and back, and 
have a regular capital cold dinner laid out in the cabin 


THE STEAM EXCURSION. 


181 


before we start, so that everything may be ready without 
any confusion ; and we shall have the lunch laid out, oi 
deck, in those little tea-garden-looking concerns by the 
paddle-boxes — I don’t know what you call ’em. Then, 
we shall hire a steamer expressly for our party, and a 
band, and have the deck chalked, and we shall be able to 
dance quadrilles all day ; and then, whoever we know 
that’s musical, you know, why they’ll make themselves 
useful and agreeable ; and — and — upon the whole, I 
really hope we shall have a glorious day, you know ! ” 

The announcement of these arrangements was received 
with the utmost enthusiasm. Mrs. Taunton, Emily, and 
Sophia, were loud in their praises. 

“ Well, but tell me, Percy,” said Mrs. Taunton, “ who 
are the ten gentlemen to be ? ” 

Oh ! I know plenty of fellows who’ll be delighted 
with the scheme,” replied Mr. Percy Noakes : “ of 
course we shall have — ” 

“ Mr. Hardy ! ” interrupted the servant, announcing a 
visitor. Miss Sophia and Miss Emily hastily assumed 
the most interesting attitudes that could be adopted on 
so short a notice. 

‘‘ How’ are you ? ” said a stout gentleman of about 
forty, pausing at the door in the attitude of an awkward 
harlequin. This was Mr. Hardy, whom we have before 
described, on the authority of Mrs. Stubbs, as “ the funny 
gentleman.” He was an Astley-Cooperish Joe Miller — 
a practical joker, immensely popular with married ladies, 
and a general favorite with young men. He was always 
engaged in some pleasure excursion or other, and de- 
lighted in getting somebody into a scrape on such occa- 
sions. He could sing comic songs, imitate hackney- 
coachmen and fowls, play airs on his chin, and execute 


182 


SKETCHES BY BOZ. 


concertos on the Jews’-harp. He always ate and drank 
most immoderately, and was the bosom-friend of Mr 
Percy Noakes. He had a red face, a somewhat husky 
voice, and a tremendous laugh. 

How are you ? ” said this worthy, laughing, as if it 
were the finest joke in the world to make a morning call, 
and shaking hands with the ladies wfith as much vehe- 
mence as if their arms had been so many pump-handles. 

You’re just the very man I wanted,” said Mr. Percy 
Noakes, who proceeded to explain the cause of his being 
in requisition. 

Ha ! ha ! ha ! ” shouted Hardy, after hearing the 
statement, and receiving a detailed account of the pro- 
posed excursion. “ Oh, capital ! glorious ! What a day 
it will he ! Avhat fun ! — But, I say, when are you going 
to begin making the arrangements ? ” 

No time like the present — at once, if you please.” 

‘‘ Oh, charming ! ” cried the ladies. Pray, do 1 ” 

Writing materials were laid before Mr. Percy Noakes, 
and the names of the different members of the committee 
were agreed on, after as much discussion between him 
and Mr. Hardy as if the fate of nations had depended 
on their appointment. It was then agreed that a meet- 
ing should take place at Mr. Percy Noakes’s chambers 
on the ensuing Wednesday evening at eight o’clock, and 
tlie visitors departed. 

Wednesday evening arrived ; eight o’clock came, and 
eight members of the committee were punctual in their 
attendance. Mr. Loggins, the solicitor, of Boswell 
Court, sent an excuse, and Mr. Samuel Briggs, the ditto 
of Furnival’s Inn, sent his brother: much to his (the 
brother’s) satisfaction, and greatly to the discomfiture of 
Mr. Percy Noakes. Between the Briggses and the 


THE STEAM EXCURSION. 


183 


Tauntons there existed a degree of implacable hatred, 
quite unprecedented. The animosity between the Mon- 
tagues and Capulets, was nothing to that which prevailed 
between these two illustrious houses. Mrs. Briggs was a 
widow, with three daughters and two sons ; Mr. Samuel, 
the eldest, was an attorney, and ]Mr. Alexander, the 
youngest, was under articles to his brother. They re- 
sided in Portland Street, Oxford Street, and moved in 
tlie same orbit as the Tauntons — hence their mutual 
dislike. If the Miss Briggses Appeared in smart bonnets, 
the Miss Tauntons eclipsed them with smarter. If Mrs. 
Taunton appeared in a cap of all the hues of the rain- 
bow, Mrs. Briggs forthwith mounted a toque, with all the 
patterns of the kaleidoscope. If Miss Sophia Taunton 
learnt a new song, two of the Miss Briggses came out 
with a new duet. The Tauntons had once gained a tem- 
porary triumph with the a.-sistance of a harp, but the 
Briggses brought three guitars into the field, and .effec- 
tually routed the enemy. There was no end to the riv- 
alry between them. 

Now, as Mr. Samuel Briggs was a mere machine, a 
^ort of selfacting legal walking-stick ; and as the party 
was known to have originated, however remotely, with 
Mrs. Taunton, theffemale branches of the Briggs family 
had arranged that Mr. Alexander should attend, instead 
of his brother; and as the said Mr. Alexander was de- 
servedly celebrated for possessing all the pertinacity of 
a bankruptcy-court attorney, combined with the obstinacy 
of that useful animal which browses on the thistle, he l e* 
quired but little tuition. He was especially enjoined to 
make himself as disagreeable as possible ; and above all, 
to black-ball the Tauntons at every hazard. 

The proceedings of the evening were opened by Mr. 


184 


SKETCHES BY BOZ. 


Percy Noakes. After successfully urging on the gentle* 
men present the propriety of their mixing some brandy- 
and-water, he briefly stated the object of the meeting 
and concluded by observing that the first step must be 
the selection of a chairman, necessarily possessing some 
arbitrary — he trusted not unconstitutional — powers, to 
whom the personal direction of the whole of the arrange- 
ments (subject to the approval of the committee) should 
be confided. A pale young gentleman, in a green stock 
and spectacles of the same, a member of the honorable 
society of the Inner Temple, immediately rose for the 
purpose of proposing Mr. Percy Noakes. He had known 
him long, and this he would say, that a more honorable, 
a more excellent, or a better-hearted fellow, never ex- 
isted. — (Hear, hear !) The young gentleman, wdio was 
a member of a debating society, took this opportunity of 
entering into an examination of the state of the English 
law, from the days of William the Conqueror down to 
the present period ; he briefiy adverted to the code es- 
tablished by the ancient Druids ; slightly glanced at the 
principles laid down by the Athenian lawgivers ; and 
concluded wuth a most glowing eulogium on picnics and^ 
constitutional rights. 

Mr. Alexander Briggs opposed the ‘motion. He had 
the highest esteem for Mr. Percy Noakes as an individ- 
ual, but he did consider that he ought not to be intrusted 
with these immense powers — (oh, oh!) — He believed 
that in the proposed capacity Mr. Percy Noakes would 
not act fairly, impartially, or honorably ; but he begged 
it to be distinctly understood, that he said this without 
the slightest personal disrespect. Mr. Hardy defended 
his honorable friend, in a voice rendered partially unin- 
telligible by emotion and brandy-and-water. The prop- 


THE STEAM EXCURSION. 


185 


osition was put to the vote, 'and there appearing to be only 
one dissentient voice, Mr. Percy Noakes was declared 
duly elected, and took the chair accordingly. 

The business of the meeting now proceeded with 
rapidity. The chairman delivered in his estimate of the 
probable expense of the excursion, and every one present 
subscribed his proportion thereof. The question was 
put that “ The Endeavor ’’ be hired for the occasion ; 
Mr. Alexander Briggs moved as an amendment, that the 
word “ Fly ” be substituted for the word “ Endeavor ; ” 
but after some debate consented to withdraw his opposi- 
tion. The important ceremony of balloting then com- 
menced. A tea-caddy was placed on a table in a dark 
corner of the apartment, and every one w^as provided 
with two backgammon men, one black and one white. 

The chairman with great solemnity then read the fol- 
lowing list of the guests whom he proposed to introduce : 
— Mrs. Taunton and two daughters, Mr. Wizzle, Mr. 
Simson. The names were respectively balloted for, and 
Mrs. Taunton and her daughters were declared to be 
black-balled. Mr. Percy Noakes and Mr. Hardy ex- 
changed glances. 

“ Is your list prepared, Mr. Briggs ? ” inquired the 
chairman. 

“ It is,” replied Alexander, delivering in the follow- 
ing : “ Mrs. Briggs and three daughters, Mr. Samuel 
Briggs.” The previous ceremony was repeated, and 
Mrs. Briggs and three daughters were declared to be 
black-balled. Mr. Alexander Briggs looked rather fool- 
ish, and the remainder of the company appeared some- 
what overawed by the mysterious nature of the proceed- 
ings. 

The balloting proceeded ; but, one little circumstance 


18G 


SKETCHES BY BOZ. 


which Mr. Percy Noakes had not originally foreseen, 
prevented the system from working quite as well as he 
had anticipated. Everybody was black-balled. Mr. 
Alexander Brigg^, by way of retaliation, exercised his 
power of exclusion in every instance, and the result was, 
that after three hours had been consumed in hard bal- 
loting, the names of only three gentlemen were found to 
have been agreed to. In this dilemma what was to be 
done ? either the whole plan must fall to the ground, or 
a compromise must be effected. The latter alternative 
was preferable ; and Mr. Percy Noakes therefore pro- 
posed that the form of balloting should be dispensed 
with, and that every gentleman should merely be re- 
quired to state whom he intended to bring. The pro- 
posal was acceded to ; the Tauntons and the Briggses 
were reinstated ; and the party was formed. 

The next Wednesday was fixed for the eventful day, 
and it was unanimously resolved that every member of 
the committee should wear a piece of blue sarsenet 
ribbon round his left arm. It appeared from the state- 
ment of Mr. Percy Noakes, that the boat belonged to 
the General Steam Navigation Company, and was then 
lying off the Custom House ; and, as he proposed that 
the dinner and wines should be provided by an eminent 
city purveyor, it was arranged that Mr. Percy Noaki s 
should be on board by seven o’clock to superintend the 
arrano:ements, and that the remaining^ members of the 
committee, together witli the company generally, should 
be expected to join her by nine o’clock. More brandy- 
and-water was despatched ; several speeches were made 
by the different law students present ; thanks were voted 
to the chairman ; and the meeting separated. 

The weather had been beautiful up to this period, and 


THE STEAM EXCURSION. 


187 


beautiful it continued to be. Sunday passed over, and 
Mr. Percy Noakes became unusually fidgety — rushing, 
constantly, to and from the Steam Packet Wharf, to the 
astonishment of the clerks, and the great emolument of 
the Holborn cabmen. Tuesday arrived, and the anxiety 
of Mr. Percy Noakes knew no bounds. He was every 
instant running to the window^, to look out for clouds; 
'and Mr. Hardy astonished the whole square by practis- 
ing a new comic song for the occasion, in the chairman’s 
chambers. 

Uneasy were the slumbers of Mr. Percy Noakes that* 
night ; he tossed and tumbled about, and had confused 
dreams of steamers starting off, and gigantic clocks with 
the hands pointing to a quarter past nine, and the ugly 
face of Mr. Alexander Briggs looking over the boat’s 
side, and grinning, as if in derision of his fruitless at- 
tempts to move. He made a violent effort to get on 
board, and awoke. Tlie bright sun was shining cheer- 
fully into tlie bedroom, and Mr. Percy Noakes started up 
for his watch, in the dreadful expectation of finding his 
worst dreams realized. 

It was just five o’clock. He calculated the time — he 
should be a good half-hour dressing himself ; and as it 
wms a lovely morning, and the tide would be then run- 
ning down, he would walk leisurely to Strand Lane, and 
have a boat to the Custom Flouse. 

He dressed himself, took a hasty apology for a break- 
fast, and sallied forth. The streets looked as lonely and 
deserted as if they had been crowded, overnight, for the 
last time. Here and there, an early a})prentice, 'with 
quenched-looking sleepy eyes, was taking down the shut- 
ters of a shop ; and a policeman or milk-woman might 
occasionally he seen pacing slowly along ; but the ser- 


188 


SKETCHES BY BOZ. 


vants had not yet begun to clean the doors, or light the 
kitchen fires, and London looked the picture of desola- 
tion. At the corner of a by-street, near Temple Bar, 
was stationed a “ street-breakfast.” The coffee was 
boiling over a charcoal fire, and large slices of bread and 
butter were piled one upon the other, like deals in a 
timber-yard. The company were seated on a form, 
which, with a view both to security and comfort, wa& 
placed against a neighboring wall. Two young men, 
whose uproarious mirth and disordered dress bespoke 
the conviviality of the preceding evening, were treating 
three “ ladies ” and an Irish laborer. A little sweep was 
standing at a short distance, casting a longing eye at tile 
tempting delicacies ; and a policeman was watching the 
group from the opposite side of the street. The wan 
looks and gaudy finery of the thinly- clad Avomen con- 
trasted as strangely with the gay sunlight as did their 
forced merriment with the boisterous hilarity of the two 
young men, who, now and then, varied their amusements 
by “ bonneting ” the proprietor of this itinerant coffee- 
house. 

Mr. Percy Noakes walked briskly by, and when he 
turned down Strand Lane, and caught a glimpse of the 
glistening water, he thought he had never felt so impor- 
tant or so happy in his life. 

“ Boat, sir ! ” cried one of the three watermen Avho 
were mopping out their boats, and all whistling. “ Boat, 
sir ! ” 

“ No,” replied Mr. Percy Noakes, rather sharply ; for 
the inquiry was not made in a manner at all suitable to 
his dignity. 

“ Would you prefer a wessel, sir ? ” inquired another, 
to the infinite delight of the ‘Mack-in-the-water.” 


THE STEAM EXCUKSION. 


189 


Mr. Percy Noakes replied with a look of supreme 
contempt. 

“ Did you want to be put on board a steamer, sir ? ” 
inquired an old fireman-waterman, very confidentially. 
He was dressed in a faded red suit, just the color of the 
cover of a very old Court- Guide. 

“ Yes, make haste — the Endeavor — off the Custom 
House.” 

“ Endeavor ! ” cried the man who had convulsed the 
“Jack” before. “ Yy, I see the Endeavor go up half an 
hour ago.” 

“ So did I,” said another ; “ and I should think she’d 
gone down by this time, for she’s a precious sight too full 
of ladies and gen’lemen.” 

Mr. Percy Noakes aflfected to disregard these represen- 
tations, and stepped into the boat, which the old man, by 
dint of scrambling, and shoving, and grating, had brought 
up to the causeway. “ Shove her off! ” cried Mr. Percy 
Noakes, and away the boat glided down the river ; Mr. 
Percy Noakes seated on the recently mopped seat, and 
the watermen at the stairs offering to bet any reasonable 
sum that lie’d never reach the “ Custum-us.” 

“ Here she is, by Jove ! ” said the delighted Percy, as 
they ran alongside the Endeavor. 

“ Hold hard ! ” cried the steward over the side, and 
Mr. Percy Noakes jumped on board. 

“ Hope you will find everything as you wished, sir. 
She looks uncommon well this morning.” 

“ She does, indeed,” replied the manager, in a state of 
ecstasy which it is impossible to describe. The deck 
was scrubbed, and the seats were scrubbed, and there 
was a bench for the band, and a place for dancing, and a 
pile of camp-stools, and an awning ; and then Mr. Percy 


190 


SKETCHES BY BOZ. 


Noakes bustled down below, and there were the pastry- 
cook’s men, and the steward’s wife, laying out the dinner 
on two tables the whole length of the cabin ; and then, 
Mr. Percy Noakes took oif his coat, and rushed back- 
Avards and forwards, doing nothing, but (^uite convinced 
he was assisting everybody ; and- tlie steward’s wife 
laughed till she cried, and Mr. Percy Noakes panted 
Avith the violence of his exertions. And then, the bell 
at London Bridge Wharf rang ; and a Margate boat Avas 
just starting ; and a Gravesend boat was just starting, 
and people shouted, and porters ran doAvn the steps with 
luggage that Avould crush any men but porters ; and 
sloping boards, -Avith bits of Avood nailed on them AA^ere 
placed betAveen the outside boat and the inside boat ; and 
the passengers ran along them, and looked like so many 
foAAds coming out of an area ; and then the bell ceased, 
and the boards AA^ere taken away, and the boats started, 
and the AAdiole scene was one of the most delightful bus- 
tle and confusion. 

The time wore on ; half-past eight o’clock arrived : the 
pastrycook’s men AA^ent ashore ; the dinner AA^as com- 
pletely laid out ; and Mr. Percy Noakes locked the prin- 
cipal cabin, and put the key in his pocket, in order that 
it might be suddenly disclosed, in all its magnificence, to 
the eyes of the astonished company. The band came on 
board and so did the Avine. 

Ten minutes to nine, and the committee embarked in 
a body. There was Mr. Hardy, in a blue jacket and 
Avaistcoat, white trousers, silk stockings, and pumps — in 
full aquatic costume, Avith a straAv hat on his head, and 
an immense telescope under his arm ; and there Avas the 
young gentleman with the green spectacles, with nan- 
keen inexplicables, Avith a ditto Avaistcoat and bright but- 


THE STEAM EXCUESION. 


191 


tons, like the pictures of Paul — not the saint, but he of 
Virginia notoriety. The remainder of the committee, 
dressed in white hats, light jackets, waistcoats, and 
trousers, looked something between waiters and West 
India planters. 

Nine o’clock struck, and the company arrived in 
shoals. Mr. Samuel Briggs, Mrs. Briggs, and the 
Misses Briggs, made their appearance in a smart private 
wherry. The three guitars, in their respective dark 
green cases, were carefully stowed away in the bottom 
of the boat, accompanied by two immense portfolios of 
music, which it would take at least a week’s incessant 
playing to get through. The Tauntons arrived at the 
same moment with more music, and a lion — a gentle- 
man with a bass voice and an incipient red moustache. 
The colors of the Taunton party w^ere pink ; those of 
the Briggses a light blue. The Tauntons had artificial 
flowers in their bonnets ; here the Briggses gained a 
decided advantage — they wore feathers. 

How^ d'ye do, dear ? ” said the Misses Briggs to the 
Misses Taunton. (The word “-dear” among girls is fre- 
quently synonymous with wretch.”) 

Quite well, tliank you, dear,” replied the Misses 
Taunton to the Misses Briggs ; and then there was 
such a kissing, and congratulating, and shaking of hands, 
as might have induced one to suppose that the two fiun- 
ilies were the best friends in the world, instead of each 
>vishing the other overboard, as they most sincerely did. 

Mr. Percy Noakes received the visitors, and bowed to 
the strange gentleman, as if he should like to know who 
he was. This was just what Mrs. Taunton wanted. 
Here was an opportunity to astonish the Briggses. 

Oh ! I beg your pardon,” said the general of the 


192 


SKETCHES BY BOZ. 


Taunton party, with a careless air. — “ Captain Helves 
— Mr. Percy Noakes — Mrs. Briggs — Captain Helves.” 

Mr. Percy Noakes bowed very low ; the gallant cap- 
tain did the same with all due ferocity, and the Briggses 
were clearly overcome. 

“ Our friend, Mr. Wizzle, being unfortunately pre- 
vented from coming,” resumed Mrs. Taunton, “ I did my- 
self the pleasure of bringing the captain, whose musical 
talents I knew would be a great acquisition.” 

In the ^name of the committee I have to thank you 
for doing so, and to offer you welcome, sir,” replied 
Percy. (Here the scraping was renewed.) But pray 
be seated — won’t you walk aft ? Captain, will you 
conduct Miss Taunton ? — Miss- Briggs, will you allow 
me ? ” 

Where could they have picked up that military 
man ? ” inquired Mrs. Briggs of Miss Kate Briggs, as 
they followed the little party. 

“ I can’t imagine, replied Miss Kate, bursting with 
vexation ; for the very fierce air with which the gallant 
captain regarded the company had impressed her with a 
high sense of his importance. 

Boat after boat came alongside, and guest after guest 
arrived. The invites had been excellently arranged : 
Mr. Percy Noakes having considered it as important that 
the number of young men should exactly tally with that 
of the young ladies, as that the quantity of knives on 
board should be in precise proportion to the forks. 

“ Now, is every one on board ? ” inquired Mr. Percy 
Noakes. The committee (who, with their bits of blue 
ribbon, looked as if they were all going to be bled) bus- 
tled about to ascertain the fact, and reported that they 
might safely start. 


THE STEAM EXCURSION. 


193 


“ Go on ! cried the master of the boat from the top 
of one of the paddle-boxes. 

“ Go on ! ” echoed the boy, who was stationed over the 
hatchway to pass the directions down to the engineer ; 
and away w^ent the vessel with that agreeable noise 
which is peculiar to steamers, and which is composed 
of a mixture of creaking, gushing, clanging, and snort- 
ing. 

“ Hoi — oi — oi — oi — oi — oi — o — i — i — i!” shouted half 
a dozen voices from a boat, a quarter of a mile astern. 

‘‘ Ease her ! ” cried the captain : “ do these people be- 
long to us, sir ? ” 

“ Noakes,” exclaimed Hardy, who had been looking at 
every object, far and near, through the large telescope, 

“ it’s the Fleetwoods and the Wakefields — and two 
children with them, by Jove ! ” 

“ What a shame to bring children ! ” said everybody ; 

“ how very inconsiderate ! ” 

“ I say, it would be a good joke to pretend not to see 
’em, wouldn't it ? ” suggested Hardy, to the immense de- 
light of the company generally. A council of war was 
hastily held, and it was resolved that the new comers 
should be taken on board, on Mr. Hardy’s solemnly ^ 
pledging himself to tease the children during the whole 
of the day. 

“ Stop her ! ” cried the captain. 

“ Stop her ! ” repeated the boy ; whizz went the steam, 
and all the young ladies, as in duty bound, screamed in 
concert. They were only appeased by the assurance of 
the martial Helves, that the escape of steam consequent 
on stopping a vessel was seldom attended with any great 
loss of human life. 

Two men ran to the side ; and after some shouting, 

VOL. II. 13 


194 


SKETCHES BY BOZ. 


and swearing, and angling for the wherry with a boat- 
hook, Mr. Fleetwood, and Mrs. Fleetwood, and Master 
Fleetwood, and Mr. Wakefield, and Mrs. Wakefield, and 
Miss Wakefield, were safely deposited on the deck. The 
girl was about six years old, the boy about four ; the 
former was dressed in a white frock with a pink sash 
and dog’s-eared-looking little spencer: a straw bonnet 
and green veil, six inches by three and a half ; the latter 
was attired for the occasion in a nankeen frock, between 
the bottom of which, and the top of his plaid socks, a 
considerable portion of two small mottled legs was dis- 
cernible. He had a light blue cap with a gold band and 
tassel on his head, and a damp piece of gingerbread in 
his hand, with which he had slightly embossed his coun- 
tenance. 

The boat once more started off ; the band played “ Off 
she goes ; ” the major part of the company conversed 
clieerfully in groups ; and the old gentlemen walked up 
and down the deck in pairs, as perse veringly and gravely 
as if they were doing a match against time for an im- 
mense stake. They ran briskly down the Pool ; the 
gentlemen pointed out the Docks, the Thames Police 
, Office, and other elegant public edifices ; and the young 
ladies exhibited a proper display of horror at the appear- 
ance of the coal-whippers and ballast-heavers. Mr. 
Hardy told stories to the married ladies, at which they 
laughed very much in their pocket-handkerchiefs, and 
hit him on the knuckles with their fans, declaring him to 
be a naughty man — a shocking creature ” — and sc 
forth ; and Captain Helves gave slight descriptions of 
battles, and duels, with a most bloodthirsty air, which 
made him the admiration of the women, and the envy 
of the men. Quadrilling commenced ; Captain Helves 


THE STEAM EXCURSION. 


195 


danced one set with Miss Emily Taunton, and another 
set with Miss Sophia Taunton. Mrs. Taunton was in 
ecstasies. The victory appeared to be complete ; but 
alas ! the inconstancy of man ! Having performed this 
necessary duty, he attached himself solely to Miss Julia 
Briggs, with whom he danced no less than three sets 
consecutively, and from whose side he evinced no inten- 
tion of stirring for the remainder of the day. 

Mr. Hardy, having played one or two very brilliant 
fantasias on the JewsMiarp, and having frequently re- 
peated the exquisitely amusing joke of slyly chalking a 
large cross on the back of some member of the com- 
mittee, Mr. Percy Noakes expressed his hope that some 
of their musical friends would oblige the company by a 
display of their abilities. 

Perhaps,” he said in a very insinuating manner, 
“ Captain Helves will oblige us ? ” Mrs. Taunton’s 
countenance lighted up, for the captain only sang duets, 
and couldn’t sing them with anybody but one of her 
daughters. 

Peally,” said that warlike individual, “ I should be 
very happy, but — ” 

‘‘ Oh ! pray do,” cried all the young ladies. 

“ Miss Sophia, have you any objection to join in a 
duet ? ” 

“ Oh ! not the slightest ; ” returned the young lady, in 
a tone which clearly showed she had the greatest possible 
objection. 

“ Shall I accompany you, dear?” inquired one of the 
IMiss Briggses, with the bland intention of spoiling the 
effect. 

“Very much obliged to you. Miss Briggs, sharply 
retorted Mrs. Taunton, who saw through the manoeu- 


196 


SKETCHES BY BOZ. 


vre ; ‘‘ my daughters always sing without accompani* 
ments.” 

“ And without voices,” tittered Mrs. Briggs, in a low 
tone. 

“ Perhaps,” said Mrs. Taunton, reddening, for she 
guessed the tenor of the observation, though she had not 
heard it clearly — “ Perhaps it would be as well for some 
people, if their voices were not quite so audible as they 
are to other people.” 

And, perhaps, if gentlemen who are kidnapped to 
pay attention to some persons’ daughters, had not suffi- 
cient discernment to pay attention to other persons’ 
daughters,” returned Mrs. Briggs, “ some persons would 
not be so ready to display that ill-temper which, thank 
God, distinguishes them from other persons.” 

“ Persons ! ” ejaculated Mrs. Taunton. 

‘‘ Persons,” replied Mrs. Briggs. 

“ Insolence ! ” 

“ Creature ! ” 

Hush ! hush ! ” interrupted Mr. Percy Noakes, who 
was one of the very few by whom this dialogue had been 
overheard. Hush ! — pray, silence for the duet.” 

After a gi’eat deal of preparatory crowing and hum- 
ming, the captain began the following duet from the 
opera of “ Paul and Virginia,” in that grunting tone in 
which a man gets down. Heaven knows where, without 
the remotest chance of ever getting up again. This, in 
private circles, is frequently designated “ a bass voice.” 

“ See (sung the captain) from o — ce— an ri — sing 
Bright flames the or — b of d — aj’. 

From yon gro — ove, the varied so — ongs — ” 

Here, the singer was interrupted by varied cries of 
the most dreadful description, proceeding' from some 


THE STEAM EXCURSION. 


197 


grove in the immediate vicinity of the starboard paddle* 
box. 

My child ! ” screamed Mrs. Fleetwood. “ My child ! 
it is his voice — I know it.” 

Mr. Fleetwood, accompanied by several gentlemen, 
here rushed to the quarter from whence the noise pro- 
ceeded, and an exclamation of horror burst from the 
company ; the general impression being, that the little 
innocent had either got his head in the water, or his legs 
in the machinery. 

“ What is the matter ? ” shouted the agonized father, 
as he returned with the child in his arms. 

“ Oh ! oh ! oh ! ” screamed the small sufferer again. 

What is the matter, dear ? ” inquired the father, once 
more — hastily stripping off the nankeen frock, for the 
purpose of ascertaining whether the child had one bone 
which was not smashed to pieces. 

“ Oh ! oh ! — I’m so frightened ! ” 

What at, dear ? — what at ? ” said the mother, sooth- 
ing the sweet infant. 

Oh ! he’s been making such dreadful faces at me,” 
cried the boy, relapsing into convulsions at the bare 
recollection. 

“ He ! — who ? ” cried everybody, crowding round 
him. 

‘‘ Oh ! — him ! ” replied the child, pointing at Hardy, 
who affected to be the most concerned of the whole 
group. 

The real state of the case at once flashed upon the 
minds of all present, with the exception of the Fleet- 
woods and the Wakefields. The facetious Hardy, in ful 
filment of his promise, had watched the child to a remote 
part of the vessel, and, suddenly appeanng before him 


198 


SKETCHES BY BuZ. 


with the most awful contortions of visage, had produced 
his paroxysm of terror. Of course, he now observed 
that it was hardly necessary for him to deny the accusa- 
tion ; and the unfortunate little victim was accordingly 
led below, after receiving sundry thumps on the head 
from both his parents, for having the wickedness to tell 
a story. 

This little interruption having been adjusted, the cap- 
tain resumed, and Miss Emily chimed in, in due course. 
The duet was loudly applauded, and, certainly, the per- 
fect independence of the parties deserved great commen- 
dation. Miss Emily sung her part, without the slightest 
reference to the captain ; and the captain sang so loud, 
that he had not the slightest idea w'hat was being done 
by his partner. After having gone through the last 
few eighteen or nineteen bars by himself, therefore, he 
acknowledged the plaudits of the circle with that air of 
self-denial v/hich men usually assume when they think 
they have done something to astonish the company. 

Now,” said Mr. Percy Noakes, who had just as- 
cended from the fore-cabin, where he had been busily 
eno^afred in decantino; the wine, “if the Misses Briggs 
will oblige us with something before dinner, I am sure 
we shall be very much delighted.” 

One of those hums of admiration followed the sugges- 
lion, which one frequently hears in society, when nobody 
has the most distant notion what he is expressing his ap- 
proval of. The three Misses Briggs looked modestly at 
their mamma, and the mamma looked approvingly at 
her daughters, and Mrs. Taunton looked scornfully at all 
of them. The Misses Briggs asked for their guitars, 
and several gentlemen seriously damaged the cases in 
heir anxiety to present them. Then, there was a very 


THE STEAM EXCURSION. 


199 


interesting production of three little keys for the afore- 
said cases, and a melodramatic expression of horror at 
finding a string broken ; and a vast deal of screwing and 
tightening, and winding, and tuning, during which Mrs. 
Briggs expatiated to those near her on the immense diffi- 
culty of playing a guitar, and hinted at the wondro s 
proficiency of her daughters in that mystic art. INIrs. 
Taunton whispered to a neighbor that it was “ quite 
sickening ! ” and the Misses Taunton looked as if they 
knew how to play, but disdained to do it. 

At lengtli, the Misses Briggs began in real earnest. 
It was a new Spanish composition, for three voices and 
three guitars. The effect was electrical. All eyes were 
turned upon the captain, who was reported to have once 
passed through Spain with his regiment, and who must 
be well acquainted with the national music. He was in 
raptures. This was sufficient ; the trio was encored ; 
the applause was universal; and never had the Taun- 
tons suffered such a complete defeat. 

“ Bravo ! bravo ! ” ejaculated the captain ; — “ Bravo ! ” 
“ Pretty ! isn’t it, sir ? ” inquired Mr. Samuel Briggs, 
with the air of a self-satisfied showman. By the by, 
these were the first words he had been heard to utter 
since he left Boswell Court the evening before. 

“ De — lightful ! ” returned the captain, with a flourish, 
and a military cough ; — de — lightful ! ” 

‘‘ Sweet instrument ? ” said an old gentleman with a 
bald head, who had been trying all the morning to look 
through a telescope, inside the glass of which Mr. Hardy 
had fixed a large black wafer. 

‘‘ Did you ever hear a Portuguese tambourine ? ” in- 
quired that jocular individual. 

Did you ever hear a tom-tom, sir ? ” sternly inquired 


200 


SKETCHES BY BOZ. 


the captain, who lost no opportunity of showing off his 
travels, real or pretended. 

“ A what ? ” asked Hardy, rather taken aback. 

“ A tom-tom.” 

Never ! ” 

Nor a gum-gum ? ” 

Never!” 

What is a gum-gum ? ” eagerly inquired several 
young ladies. 

“ When I was in the East Indies,” replied the captain. 
(Here was a discovery — he had been in the East In- 
dies I) — ‘‘ when I was in the East Indies, I was once 
stopping, a few thousand miles up the country, on a visit 
at the house of a very particular friend of mine. Ram 
Chowdar Doss Azuph A1 Bowlar — a devilish pleasant 
fellow. As we were enjoying our hookahs, one evening, 
in the cool verandah in front of his villa, we were rather 
surprised by the sudden appearance of thirty-four of his 
Kit-ma-gars (for he had rather a large establishment 
there), accompanied by an equal number of Con-su-mars, 
approaching the house with a threatening aspect, and 
beating a tom-tom. The Ram started up — ” 

“ Who ? ” inquired the bald gentleman, intensely in- 
terested. 

“ The Ram — Ram Chowdar — ” 

Oh ! ” said the old gentleman, I beg your pardon ; 
pray go on.” 

“ — Started up and drew a pistol. ‘ Helves,’ said he, 
‘ my boy,’ — he always called me, my boy — ‘ Helves,’ 
said he, ‘ do you hear that tom-tom ? ’ ‘I do,’ said I. 
His countenance, which before was pale, assumed a most 
frightful appearance ; his whole visage was distorted, and 
his frame shaken by violent emotions. ‘ Do you see that 


THE STEAM EXCURSIOIST. 


201 


gum-gum ? ’ said he. ‘ No/ said I, staring about me. 
‘ You don’t ? ’ said he. ‘ No, I’ll be damned if I do,’ 
said I ; ‘ and what’s more, I don’t know what a gum- 
gum is,’ said I. I really thought the Ram would have 
dropped. He drew me aside, and with an expression 
of agony I shall never forget, said in a low whisper — ” 

“ Dinner’s on the table, ladies,” interrupted the stew- 
ard’s wife. 

“ Will you allow me ? ” said the captain, immediately 
suiting the action to the word, and escorting Miss Julia 
Briggs to the cabin, with as much ease as if he had 
finished the story. 

What an extraordinary circumstance ! ” ejaculated 
the same old gentleman, preserving his listening atti- 
tude. 

What a traveller ! ” said the young ladies. 

What a singular name ! ” exclaimed the gentlemen, 
rather confused by the coolness of the whole affair. 

“ I wish he had finished the story,” said an old lady. 
“ I wonder what a gum-gum really is ? ” 

By Jove ! ” exclaimed Hardy, who until now had 
been lost in utter amazement, “ I don’t know what it may 
be in India, but in England I think a gum-gum has very 
much the same meaning as a hum-bug.” 

‘‘ How illiberal ; how envious I ” cried everybody, as 
they made for the cabin, fully impressed with a belief in 
the captain’s amazing adventures. Helves was the sole 
lion for the remainder of the day — impudence and the 
marvellous are pretty sure passports to any society. 

The party had by this time reached their destination, 
and put about on their return home. The wind, which had 
been with them the whole day, was now directly in their 
teeth ; the weather had become gradually more and more 


202 


SKETCHES BY BOZ. 


overcast ; and the sky, water, and shore, were all of that 
• dull, heavy, uniform lead-color, which house-painters 
daub in the first instance over a street-door which is 
gradually approaching a state of convah sconce. It had 
been spitting ” with rain for the last half-hour, and 
now began to pour in good earnest. The wind was 
freshening very fast, and the waterman at the wheel had 
unequivocally expressed his opinion that there would 
shortly be a squall. A slight emotion on the part of the 
vessel, now and then, seemed to suggest the possibility of 
its pitching to a very uncomfortable extent in the event 
of its blowing harder ; and every timber began to creak, 
as if the boat were an over-laden clothes-basket. Sea- 
sickness, however, is like a belief in ghosts — every one 
entertains some misgivings on the subject, but few will 
acknowledge any. The majority of the company, there- 
fore, endeavored to look peculiarly happy, feeling all the 
while especially miserable. 

“ Don’t it rain ? ” inquired the old gentleman before 
noticed, when, by dint of squeezing and jamming, they 
were all seated at table. 

I think it does — a little,” replied Mr. Percy Noakes, 
who could hardly hear himself speak, in consequence of 
the pattering on the deck. 

“ Don’t it blow ? ” inquired some one else. 

‘‘ No — I don’t think it does,” responded Hardy, sin- 
cerely wishing, that he could persuade himself that it did 
not : for he sat near the door, and was almost blown off 
his seat. 

“ It’ll soon clear up,” said Mr. Percy Noakes, in a 
cheerful tone. 

‘‘ Oh, certainly ! ” ejaculated the committee generally. 

" No doubt of it ! ” said the remainder of the com- 


THE STEAM EXCURSION. 


203 


pany, whose attention was now pretty well engrossed by 
the serious business of eating, carving, taking wine, and 
so forth. 

The throbbing motion of the engine was but too per- 
ceptible. There was a large, substantial, cold boiled leg 
of mutton, at the bottom of the table shaking like blanc- 
mange ; a previously hearty sirloin of beef looked as if 
it had been suddenly seized with the palsy ; and some 
tongues, which were placed on dishes rather too large 
for them, went through the most surprising evolutions ; 
darting from side to side, and from end to end, like a fly 
in an inverted wine-glass. Then, the sweets shook and 
trembled, till it was quite impossible to help them, and 
people gave up the attempt in despair ; and the pigeon- 
pies looked as if the birds, whose legs Avere stuck out- 
side, were trying to get them in. The table vibrated and 
started like a feverish pulse, and the very legs were con- 
vulsed — everything was shaking and jarring. The 
beams in the roof of the cabin seemed as if they were 
put there for the sole purpose of giving people headaches, 
and several elderly gentlemen became ill-tempered in 
consequence. As fast as the steward put the fire-iron^ 
up, they would fall down again ; and the more the ladies 
and gentlemen tried to sit comfortably on their seats, the 
more the seats seemed to slide away from tlie ladies and 
gentlemen. Several ominous demands were made for 
small glasses of brandy ; the countenaaices of the com- 
pany gradually underwent most extraordinary changes ; 
one gentleman was observed suddenly to rush from table 
without the slightest ostensible reason, and dart up the 
steps with incredible swiftjiess : thereby greatly damag- 
ing both himself and the steward, who happened to be 
coming down at the same moment. 


204 


SKETCHES BY BOZ. 


The cloth was removed ; the dessert was laid on the 
table ; and the glasses were filled. The motion of the 
boat increased ; several members of the party began to 
feel rather vague and misty, and looked as if they had 
only just got up. The young gentleman with the spec- 
tacles, who had been in a fluctuating state for some time 

— at one moment bright, and at another dismal, like a 
revolving light on the sea-coast — rashly announced his 
wish to propose a toast. After several ineffectual 
attempts to preserve his perpendicular, the young gen- 
tleman, having managed to hook himself to the centre 
leg of the table with his left hand, proceeded as fol- 
lows : 

^ Ladies and gentlemen. A gentleman is among us 

— I may say a stranger — (here some painful thought 
seemed to strike the orator ; he paused, and looked ex- 
tremely odd) whose talents, whose travels, whose cheer- 
fulness — ” 

‘‘ I beg your pardon, Edkins,” hastily interrupted Mr. 
Percy Noakes. — “ Hardy, wdiat’s the matter ? ” 

“ Nothing,” replied the “ funny gentleman,” who had 
just life enough left to utter two consecutive syllables. 
Will you have some brandy ? ” 

“ No ! ” replied Hardy in a tone of great indignation, 
and looking as comfortable as Temple Bar in a Scotch 
mist ; “ what should I want brandy for ? ” 

“ Will you go on deck ? ” 

“ No, I will not'' This was said with a most deter- 
mined air, and in a voice which might have been taken 
for an imitation of anything ; it was quite as much like 
a guinea-pig as a bassoon. ^ 

I beg your pardon, Edkins,” said the courteous 
Percy ; “ I thought our friend was ill. Pray go on.” 


THE STEAM EXCURSION- 


205 


A pause. 

Pray go on.” 

Mr. Edkins is gone,” cried somebody. 

“ I beg your pardon, sir,” said the steward, running up 
to Mr. Percy Noakes, “ I beg your pardon, sir, but the 
gentleman as just went on deck — him with the green 
spectacles — is uncommon bad, to be sure ; and the 
young man as played the wiolin says, that unless he has 
some brandy he can’t answer for the consequences. He 
says he has a wife and two children, whose werry sub- 
sistence depends on his breaking a wessel, and he 
expects to do so every moment. The flageolet’s been 
werry ill, but he’s better, only he’s in a dreadful pruspera- 
tion.” 

All disguise was now useless ; the company staggered 
on deck ; the gentlemen tried to see nothing but the 
clouds ; and the ladies, muffled up in such shawls and 
cloaks as they had brought with them, lay about on the 
seats, and under the seats, in the most wretched condi- 
tion. Never was such a blowing and raining, and pitch- 
ing and tossing, endured by any pleasure party before. 
Several remonstrances were sent down below, on the 
subject of Master Fleetwood, but they were totally un- 
heeded in consequence of the indisposition of his natural 
protectors. That interesting child screamed at the top 
of his voice, until he had no voice left to scream with ; 
and then, Miss Wakefield began, and screamed for the 
remainder of the passage. 

Mr. Hardy was observed, some hours afterwards, in 
an attitude which induced his friends to suppose that he 
was busily engaged in contemplating the beauties of the 
deep; they only regretted that- his taste for the pictu- 
resque should- lead him to remain so long in a position, 


206 


SKETCHES BY BOZ. 


very injurious at all times, but especially so to aii in- 
dividual laboring under a tendency of blood to the 
head. 

The party arrived off the Custom House at about two 
o’clock on the Thursday morning, dispirited and worn 
out. The Tauntons were too ill to quarrel with the 
Briggses, and the Briggses were too wretched to annoy 
the '^untons. One of the guitar-cases was lost on its 
p^sage to a hackney-coach, and Mrs. Briggs has not 
scrupled to state that the Tauntons bribed a porter to 
throw it down an area. Mr. Alexander Briggs opposes 
vote by ballot — he says from personal experience of its 
inefficacy ; and Ivir. Samuel Briggs, whenever he is 
asked to express his sentiments on the point, says he has 
no opinion on that or any other subject. 

Mr. Edkins — the young gentleman in the green spec- 
tacles — makes a speech on every occasion on which a 
speech can possibly be made : the eloquence of which 
can only be equalled by its length. In the event of his 
not being previously appointed to a judgeship, it is prob- 
able that he will practise as a barrister in the new Cen- 
tral Criminal Court. 

Captain Helves continued his attention to Miss Julia 
Briggs, whom he might possibly have espoused, if it had 
not unfortunately happened that Mr. Samuel arrested 
him in the way of business, pursuant to instructions 
received from IMessrs. Scroggins and Payne, whose town- 
debts the gallant captain had condescended to collect, 
but whose accounts, with the indiscretion sometimes 
peculiar to military minds, he had omitted to keep with 
that dull accuracy which custom has rendered necessary. 
Mrs. Taunton complains that she has been much de- 
ceived in him. He introduced himself to -the family on 


THE GREAT WINGLEBUKY DUEL. 


207 


board a Gravesend steam-packet, and certainly, there- 
fore, ought to have proved respectable. 

Mr. Percy Noakes is as light-hearted and careless as 
ever. 


CHAPTEPv Vlll. 

THE GREAT WIXGLEBURY DUEL. 

The little town of Great AYinglebury is exactly forty- 
two miles and three quarters from Hyde Park corner. 
It has a long, straggling, quiet High Street, with a great 
black and white clock at a small red Town Hall, half- 
way up — a market-place — a cage — an assembly-room 
— a church — a bridge — a chapel — a theatre — a 
library — an inn — a pump — and a Post-office. Tra- 
dition tells of a “ Little Winglebury,” down some cross- 
road about two miles off ; and, as a square mass of dirty 
paper, supposed to have been originally intended for a 
letter, with certain tremulous characters inscribed thereon, 
in which a lively imagination might trace a remote re- 
semblance to the word “ Little,” was once stuck up to be 
owned in the sunny window of the Great Winglebury 
Post-office, from which it only disappeared when it fell 
to pieces with dust and extreme old age, there would 
appear to be some foundation for the legend. Common 
belief is inclined to bestow the name upon a little hole 
at the end of a muddy lane about a couple of miles 
long, colonized by one wheelwright, four paupers, and a 
beer-shop ; but even this authority, slight as it is, must 
be regarded with extreme suspicion, inasmuch as the 


208 


SKETCHES BY BOZ. 


inhabitants of the hole aforesaid, concur in opining that 
it never had any name at all, from the earliest ages down 
to the present day. 

The Winglebury Arms, in the centre of the High 
Street, opposite the small building with the big clock, is 
the principal inn of Great Winglebury — the commer- 
cial inn, posting-house, and excise-office ; the “ Blue ” 
housp at every election, and the Judges’ house at every 
assizes. It is the headquarters of the Gentlemen’s 
Whist Club of Winglebury Blues (so called in opposi- 
tion to the Gentlemen’s Whist Club of Winglebury 
Buffs, held at the other house, a little further down) ; 
and whenever a juggler, or wax-work man, or concert- 
giver, takes Great Winglebury in his circuit, it is imme- 
diately placarded all over the town that Mr. So-and-so, 

trusting to that liberal support which the inhabitants of 
Great Winglebury have long been so liberal in bestowing, 
has at a great expense engaged the elegant and commo- 
dious assembly-rooms, attached to the Winglebury Arms.” 
The house is a large one, with a red brick and stone 
front ; a pretty spacious hall, ornamented with evergreen 
plants, terminates in a perspective view of the bar, and 
a glass case, in which are displayed a choice variety of 
delicacies ready for dressing, to catch the eye of a new- 
comer the moment he enters, and excite his appetite to 
the highest possible pitch. Opposite doors lead to the 
“ coffee ” and commercial ” rooms ; and a great wide, 
rambling staircase, ^ three stairs and a landing — four 
stairs and another hmding — one step and another land- 
ing — half a dozen stairs and another landing ^ and so 
on — conducts to galleries of bedrooms, and labyrinths 
of sitting-rooms, denominated “ private,” where you may 
enjoy yourself, as privately as you can in any place 


i 


THE GREAT WINGLEBURY DUEL. ^ 


209 


where some bewildered being walks into your room 
every five minutes, by mistake, and then walks out 
again, to open all the doors along the gallery until he 
finds his own. 

Such is the Winglebury Ai-nis, at this day, and such 
was the Winglebury Arms some time since — no matter 
when — two or three minutes before the arrival of the 
London stage. F our horses with cloths on — change 
for a coach — were standing quietly at the corner of the 
yard, surrounded by a listless group of post-boys in shiny 
hats and smock-frocks, engaged in discussing the merits 
of the cattle ; half a dozen ragged boys were standing 
a little apart, listening with evident interest to the con- 
versation of these worthies ; and a few loungers were 
collected round the horse-trough, awaiting the arrival of 
the coach. 

The day was hot and suimy, the town in the zenith of 
its dulness, and with the exception of these few idlers, 
not a living creature was to be seen. Suddenly the loud 
notes of a kev-bue-le broke the monotonous stillness of 
the street ; in came the coach, rattling over the uneven 
paving with a noise startling enough to stop even the 
large-faced clock itself. Down got the outsides, up went 
the windows in all directions, out came the waiters, up 
started the hostlers, and the loungers, and the post-boys, 
and the ragged boys, as if they were electrified — un- 
strapping, and unchaining, and unbuckling, and dragging 
wdlling horses out, and forcing reluctant horses in, and 
making a most exhilarating bustle. “ Lady inside, here ! ” 
said the guard. “ Please to alight, ma’am,” said the 
waiter. Private sitting-room ? ” interrogated the 
lady. “ Certainly, ma’am,” responded the chamber- 
maid. “Nothing but these ’ere trunks, ma’am?” in- 
it 

i ■ 


V(»T.. IT. 


210 


SKETCHES BY BOZ. 


quired the guard. ‘‘Nothing more,” replied the lady. 
Up got the outsides again, and the guard, and the coach- 
man ; off came the cloths with a jerk, “ All right,” was 
the cry ; and away they went. The loungers lingered 
a minute or two in the road, watching the coach until 
it turned the corner, and then loitered away one by one. 
The street was clear again, and the town, by contrast, 
quieter than ever. 

“ Lady in number twenty-five,” screamed the landlady. 
— “ Thomas ! ” 

“ Yes, ma’am.” 

“ Letter just been left for the gentleman in number 
nineteen. Boots at the Lion left it. No answer.” 

“Letter for you, sir,” said Thomas, depositing the 
letter on number nineteen’s table. 

“For me ? ” said number nineteen, turning from the 
window, out of which he had been surveying the scene 
just described. 

“Yes, sir,” — (waiters always speak in hints, and 
never utter complete sentences) — “ yes, sii-, — Boots at 
the Lion, ^r, — Bar, sir — Missus said number nineteen, 
sir — Alexander Trott, Esq., sir ? — your card at the 
bar, sir, I think, sir ? ” 

“ My name is Trott,” replied number nineteen, break- 
ing the seal. You may go, waiter.” The waiter pulled 
down the window-blind, and then pulled it up again — 
for a regular waiter must do something before he leaves 
the room — adjusted the glasses on tlie sideboard, 
brushed a place that was 7wt dusty, rubbed his hands 
very hard, walked stealthily to the door, and evapo- 
rated. 

There was, evidently, something in the contents of 
the letter of a nature, if not wholly unexpected, cer- 


THE GREAT WINGLEBURY DUEL. 


211 


tainly extremely disagreeable. Mr. Alexander Trott 
laid it down, and took it up again, and walked about the 
room on particular squares of the carpet, and even at- 
tempted, though unsuccessfully, to whistle an air. It 
wouldn’t do. He threw himself into a chair, and read 
the following epistle aloud : — 

“ Blue Lion and Stomach-warmer, 

Great Winglebury. 

Wednesday Morning, 

“ Sir, — Immediately on discovering your intentions, 
I left our counting-house, and followed you. I know 
the purport of your journey ; — that journey shall never 
be completed. 

“ I have no friend here, just now, on whose secrecy I 
can rely. Tliis shall be no obstacle to my revenge. 
Neither shall Emily Brown be exposed to the mercenary 
solicitations of a scoundrel, odious in her eyes, and con- 
temptible in everybody else’s : nor will I tamely submit 
to the clandestine attacks of a base umbrella-maker. 

“ Sir. From Great Winglebury church a footpath 
leads through four meadows to a retired spot known to 
the towns-people as Stiffun’s Acre.” [Mr. Trott shud- 
dered.] “ I shall be waiting there alone, at twenty 
minutes before six o’clock to-morrow morning. Should 
I be disappointed in seeing you there, I vrill do myself 
the pleasure of calling with a horsewhip. 

Horace Hunter. 

“ PS. There is a gunsmith’s in the High Street ; 
and they won’t sell gunpowder after dark — you under- 
stand me. 

“ PPS. You had better not order your breakfast in 


212 SKETCHES BY BOZ. 

the morning until you have met me. It may be an 
unnecessary expense.” 

“ Desperate-minded villain ! I knew how it would 
be ! ” ejaculated the terrified Trott. “ I always told 
father, that once start me on this expedition, and Hunter 
would pursue me like the Wandering Jew. It’s bad 
enough as it is, to marry Avith the old people’s com- 
mands, and without the girl’s consent ; but what will 
Emily think of me, iC I go down there, breathless with 
running away from 'this infernal salamander ? What 
shall I do ? What can I do ? If I go back to the city, 
I’m disgraced forever — lose the girl — and, what’s 
more, lose the money too. Even if I did go on to the 
Browns’ by the coach. Hunter would be after me in a 
post-chaise ; and if I go to this place, this Stiffun’s Acre 
(another shudder), I’m as good as dead. I’ve seen him 
hit the man at the Pall M*ll shooting-gallery in the 
second button-hole of the waistcoat, five times out of 
every six, and Avhen he didn’t hit him there, he hit 
him in the head.” With this consolatory reminiscence, 
Mr. Alexander Trott again ejaculated, ‘‘ What shall 
I do ? ” 

Long and weary Avere his reflections, as, burying his 
face in his hands, he sat ruminating on the best course to 
be pursued. His mental direction-post pointed to Lon- 
don. He thought of the governor’s ” anger, and the 
loss of the fortune Avhich the paternal Brown had prom- 
ised the paternal Trott his daughter should contribute to 
the coffers of his son. Then the words “To BroAvn’s ” 
were legibly inscribed on the said direction-post, but 
Horace Hunter’s denunciation rung in his ears; — last 
of all it bore, in red letters, the Avords, “To Stiffun’s 



^ THE GREAT WINGLEBURY DUEL. 213 

Acre ; ” and then Mr. Alexander Trott decided on adopt- 
ing a plan which he presently matured. 

First and foremost, he despatched the under-hoots to 
the Blue Lion and Stomach-warmer, with a gentlemanly 
note to Mr. Horace Hunter, intimating that he thirsted 
for his destruction, and would do himself the pleasure 
of slaughteiing him next morning, without fail. He 
then wrote another letter, and requested the attendance 
of the other boots — for they kept a pair. A modest 
knock at the room-door was heard. “ Come in,” said 
Mr. Trott. A man thrust in a red head with one eye in 
it, and being again desired to ‘‘ come in,” brought in the 
body and the legs to which the head belonged, and a fur 
cap which belonged to the head. 

“ You are the upper-boots, I think ? ” inquired Mr. 
Trott. 

“ Yes, 1 am the upper-boots,” replied a voice from in- 
side a velveteen case with mother-of-pearl . buttons — 
“ that is, I’m the boots as b’longs to the house ; the 
other man’s my man, as goes errands, and does odd jobs. 
Top-boots and half-boots, I calls us.” 

“ You’re from London ? ” inquired Mr. Trott. 

Driv a cab once,” was the laconic reply. 

“ Why don’t you drive it now ? ” asked Mr. Trott. 

“ Over-driv the cab, and driv over a ’ooman,” replied 
the top-boots, with brevity. 

“ Do you know the mayor’s house ? ” inquired Trott. 

Rather,” replied the boots, significantly, as if he had 
some good reason to remember it. 

“ Do you think you could manage to leave a letter 
there ? ” interrogated Trott. 

“ Shouldn’t wonder,” responded boots. 

‘‘ But this letter,” said Trott, holding a deformed note 


214 


SKETCHES BY BOZ. 


with a paralytic direction in one hand, and five shillings 
in the other — “ this letter is anonymous.” 

‘‘A — what ? ” interrupted the boots. 

Anonymous - — he’s not to know who it comes from.” 

“ Oh ! I see,” responded the reg’lar, with a knowing 
wink, but without evincing the slightest disinclination to 
undertake the charge — ‘‘I see — bit o’ Sving, eh ?” and 
his one eye wandered round the room, as if in quest of a 
dark lantern and phosphorus-box. “But, I say ! ” he 
continued, recalling the eye from its search, and bring- 
ing it to bear on Mr. Trott. “ I say, he’s a lawyer, our 
mayor, and insured in the County. If you’ve a spite 
agen him, you’d better not burn his house down — 
blessed if I don’t think it would be the greatest favor 
you could do him.” And he chuckled inwardly. 

If Mr. Alexander Trott had been in any other situa- 
tion, his first act would have been to kick the man down- 
stairs by deputy ; or, in other words, to ring the bell, and 
desire the landlord to take his boots off. He contented 
himself, however, with doubling the fee and explaining 
that the letter merely related to a breach of the peace. 
The top-boots retired, solemnly pledged to secrecy ; and 
Mr. Alexander Trott sat down to a fried sole, maintenon 
cutlet, Madeira, and sundries, with greater composure 
than he had experienced since the receipt of Horace 
Hunter’s letter of defiance. 

The lady who alighted from the London coach had no 
sooner been installed in number twenty-five, and made 
some alteration in her travelling-dress, than she indited a 
note to Joseph Overton, esquire, solicitor, and mayor of 
Great Winglebury, requesting his immediate attendance 
on private business of paramount importance — a sum- 
mons which that worthy functionary lost no time in 


'HE GREAT WINGLEBURY DUEL. 


215 


obeying ; for after sundry openings of his eyes, divers 
ejaculations of Bless rhe ! ” and other manifestations of 
surprise, he took his broad-brimmed hat from its accus- 
tomed peg in his little front office, and walked briskly 
down the High Street to the Winglebury Arms ; through 
the hall and up the staircase of which establishment he 
was ushered by the landlady, and a crowd of officious 
waiters, to the door of number twenty-five. 

“ Show the gentleman in,’^ said the stranger lady, in 
reply to the foremost waiter s announcement. The gen- 
tleman was shown in accordingly. 

The lady rose from the sofa ; the mayor advanced a 
step from the door ; and there they both paused, for a 
minute or two, looking at one another as if by mutual 
consent. The mayor saw before him a buxom richly- 
dressed female of about forty ; the lady looked upon a 
sleek man, about ten years older, in drab shorts and con- 
tinuations, black coat, neckcloth, and gloves. 

“Miss Julia Manners!” exclaimed the mayor at 
length, “you astonish me.” 

“ That’s very unfair of you, Overton,” replied Miss 
Julia, “for I have known you, long enough, not to be 
surprised at anything you do, and you might extend 
equal courtesy to me.” 

“ But to run away — actually run away — with a 
young man 1 ” remonstrated the mayor. 

“ You wouldn’t have me actually run away with an 
old one, I presume ? ” was the cool rejoinder. 

“ And then to ask me — me — of all people in the 
world — a man of my age and appearance — mayor of 
the town — to promote such a scheme 1 ” pettishly ejacu- 
lated Joseph Overton ; throwing himself into an arm- 
chair, and producing Miss Julia’s letter from his pocket, 


216 


SKETCHES BY BOZ. 


as if to corroborate the assertion that he had been 
asked. 

“ Now, Overton,” replied the lady, “ I want youl 
assistance in this matter, and I must have it. In the 
lifetime of that poor old dear, Mr. Cornberry, who — 
who — ” 

“ Who was to have married you, and didn’t, because 
he died first; and who left you his property unencum- 
bered with the addition of himself,” suggested the mayor 

“ Well,” replied Miss Julia, reddening slightly, ‘‘ in the 
lifetime of the poor old dear, the property had the incum- 
brance of your management; and all I will say of that, 
is, that I only wonder it didn’t die of consumption in 
stead of its master. You helped yourself then : — help 
me now.” 

Mr. Joseph Overton was . a man of the world, and an 
attorney ; and as certain indistinct recollections of an 
odd thousand pounds or two, appropriated by mistake, 
passed across his mind, he hemmed deprecatingly, smiled 
blandly, remained silent for a few seconds ; and finally 
inquired, “ What do you wish me to do^? ” 

“I’ll tell you,” replied Miss Julia — “I’ll tell you in 
three words. Dear Lord Peter — ” 

“ That’s the young man, I suppose — ” interrupted the 
mayor. 

“ That’s the young Nobleman,” replied the lady, witli 
a great stress on the last word. “ Dear Lord Peter is 
considerably afraid of the resentment of his family ; and 
we have therefore thought it better to make the match a 
stolen one. He left town, to avoid suspicion, on a visit 
to his friend, the Honorable Augustus Flair, whose seat, 
as you know^, is about thirty miles from this, accompa- 
nied only by his favorite tiger. We arranged that ] 


THE GREAT WINGLEBURY DUEL. 


217 


should come here alone in the London coach ; and that 
he, leaving his tiger and cab behind him, should come on, 
and arrive here as soon as possible this afternoon.” 

“ Very well,” observed Joseph Overton, “ and then he 
can order the chaise, and you can go on to Gretna Green 
together, without requiring ‘the presence or interference 
of a third party, can’t you ? ” 

No,” replied Miss Julia. ‘‘We have every reason 
to believe — dear Lord Peter not being considered very 
prudent or sagacious by his friends, and they having dis- 
covered his attachment to me — that, immediately on his 
absence being observed, pursuit will be made in this di- 
rection : to elude which, and to prevent our being traced, 
I wish it to be understood in this house, that dear Lord 
Peter is slightly deranged, though perfectly harmless ; 
and that I am, unknown to him, awaiting his arrival to 
convey him in a post-chaise to a private asylum — at 
Berwick, say. If I don’t show myself much, I dare say 
I can manage to pass for his mother.” 

The thought occurred to the mayor’s mind that the 
lady might show herself a good deal without fear of 
detection ; seeing that she was about double the age of 
her intended husband. He said nothing, however, and 
the lady proceeded. 

“ With the whole of this arrangement dear Lord Peter 
is acquainted ; and all I want you to do, is, to make the 
delusion more complete by giving it the sanction of your 
influence in this place, and assigning this as a reason to 
the people of the house for my taking the young gentle- 
man away. As it would not be consistent with the story 
that I should see him until after he has entered the 
chaise, I also wish you to communicate with him, and 
inform him that it is all going on well.” 


218 


SKETCHES BY BOZ. 


“ Has he arrived ? ’’ inquired Overton. 

“ I don’t know,” replied the ladj. 

“ Then how ara 1 to know ? ” inquired the mayor. “ Of 
course he will not give his own name at the bar.” 

I begged him, immediately on his arrival, to write 
you a note,” replied Miss Manners ; “ and to prevent the 
possibility of our project being discovered through its 
means, I desired him to write anonymously, and in mys- 
terious terms to acquaint you with the number of his 
room.” 

“ Bless me ! ” exclaimed the mayor, rising fiom his 
seat, and searching his pockets — most extraordinary 
circumstance — he has arrived — mysterious note left at 
my house in a most mysterious manner, just before yours 
— didn’t know what to make of it before, and certainly 
shouldn’t have attended to it. — Oh ! here it is.” And 
Joseph Overton pulled out of an inner coat-pocket the 
identical letter penned by Alexander Trott. “ Is this 
his lordship’s hand ? ” 

“ Oh yes,” replied Julia ; good, punctual creature ! I 
have not seen it more than once or twice, but I know he 
writes very badly and very large. These dear, wild 
young noblemen, you know, Overton — ” 

Ay, ay, I see,” i*eplied the mayor. — ‘‘ Horses and 
dogs, play and wine — grooms, actresses, and cigars — 
the stable, the green-room, tlie saloon, and the tavern ; 
and the leMslative assemblv at last.” 

Here’s what he says,” pursued the mayor ; ‘ Sir, — 
A young gentleman in number nineteen at the Mingle- 
bury Arms, is bent on committing a rash act to-morrow 
morning at an early hour.’ (That’s good — he means 
marrying.) ‘ If you have any, regard for the peace of 
this town, or the preservation of one — it may be two 


THE GREAT WINGLEBURY DUEL. 


219 


— human lives ’ — What the deuce does he mean by 
that?’^ 

. ‘‘ That he’s so anxious for the ceremony, he will expire 

if it s put off, and that I may possibly do the same, re- 
plied the lady with great complacency. 

‘‘ Oh ! I see — not much fear of that ; — well — ‘ two 
human lives, you will cause him to be removed to-night.’ 
(He wants to start at once.) ‘Fear not to do this on 
your responsibility : for to-morrow the absolute necessity 
of the proceeding will be but too apparent. Remember : 
number nineteen. The name is Trott. No delay ; for 
life and death depend upon your promptitude.’ Passion- 
ate language, certainly. Shall I see him ? ” 

“ Do,” replied Miss Julia ; “ and entreat him to act his 
part well. I am half afraid of him. Tell him to be 
cautious.” 

“ I will,” said the mayor. 

“ Settle all the arrangements.” 

“ I will,” said the mayor again. 

“And say I tliink the chaise had better be ordered for 
one o’clock.” 

“ Very well,” said the. mayor once more ; and, rumi- 
nating on the absurdity of the situation in which fate 
and old acquaintance had placed him, he desired a waiter 
to herald his approach to the temporary representative 
of number nineteen. 

The announcement, “ Gentleman to speak with you, 
sir,” induced Mr. Ti-ott to pause half way in the glass of 
port, the contents of which he was in the act of imbibing 
at the moment; to rise from his chair; and retreat a few 
paces towards the Avindow, as if to secure a retreat, in 
the event of the visitor assuming the form and appear- 
ance of Horace Hunter. One glance at Joseph Overton, 


220 


SKETCHES BY BOZ. 


however, quieted his apprehensions. He courteously 
motioned the stranger to a seat. The waiter, after a 
little jingling with the decanter and glasses, consented 
to leave the room ; and Joseph Overton, placing the 
broad-brimmed hat on the chair next him, and bending 
liis body gently for\vard, opened the business by saying 
in a very low and cautious tone, — 

My lord — ” 

“ Eh ? ” said Mr. Alexander Trott, in a loud key, with 
the vacant and mystified stare of a chilly somnambulist. 

“ Hush — hush ! said the cautious attorney ; “ to be 
sure — quite right — no titles here — my name is Over- 
ton, sir.” 

“ Overton ? ” 

“ Yes : the mayor of this place — you sent me a letter 
with anonymous information, this aflernoon.” 

“ I, sir ? ” exclaimed Trott with ill-dissembled sur- 
prise ; for, coward as he w^as, he w'ould willingly have 
repudiated the authorship of the letter in question. “ I, 
sir ? ” 

“ Yes, you, sir ; did you not ? ” responded Overton, 
annoyed with what he supposed to be an extreme degree 
of unnecessary suspicion. “ Either this letter is yours, 
or it is not. If it be, we can converse securely upon the 
subject at once. If it be not, of course I have no more 
to say.” 

“ Stay, stay,” said Trott, “ it is mine ; I did write it. 
What could I do, sir ? I had no friend here.” 

“To be sure, to be sure,” said the mayor, encourag- 
ingly, “you could not have managed it better. Well, 
sir ; it will be necessary for you to leave here to-night in 
a post-chaise and four. And the harder the boys drive, 
the better. You are not safe from pursuit.” 


THE GREAT WINGLEBUliY DUEL. 


221 


“ Bless me ! ’’ exclaimed Trott, in an agony of appre- 
hension, “ can such things happen in a country like this ? 
Such unrelenting and cold-blooded hostility ! ’’ He 
wiped off the concentrated essence of cowardice that was 
oozing fast down his forehead, and looked aghast at 
Joseph Overton. 

It certainly is a very hard case,” replied the mayor 
with a smile, ‘‘ that, in a free country, people can’t marry 
whom they like, without being hunted down as if they 
were criminals. However, in the present instance the 
lady is willing, you know, and that’s the main point, after 
all.” 

“ Lady willing ! ” repeated Trott, mechanically. “ How 
do you know the lady’s willing ? ” 

“ Come, that's a good one,” said the mayor, benevo- 
lently tapping Mr. Irott on the arm with his broad- 
brimmed hat ; “ I have known her, well, for a long time ; 
and if anybody could entertain the remotest doubt on 
the subject, I assure you I have none, nor need you 
have.” 

Dear me ! ” said Mr. Trott, ruminating. ‘‘ This is 
very extraordinary ! ” 

“ Well, Lord Peter,” said the mayor, rising. 

“ Lord Peter ? ” repeated Mr. Trott. 

Oh — ah, I forgot. Mr. Trott, then — Trott — very 
good, ha! ha ! — AVell, sir, the chaise shall be ready at 
half-past tw^elve.” 

“ And what is to become of me until then ? ” inquired 
Mr. Trott, anxiously. “ Wouldn’t it save appearances, 
if I were placed under some restraint ? ” 

Ah ! ” replied Overton, “ very good thought — capital 
idea indeed. I’ll send somebody up directly. And if 
you make a little resistance when we put you in the 


222 


SKETCHES BY BOZ. 


chaise, it wouldn’t be amiss — look as if you didn’t want 
to be taken away, you know.” 

‘‘ To be sure,” said d'rott — “ to be sure.” 

Well, my lord,” said Overton, in a low tone, ‘‘ until 
then, I wish your lordship a good evening.” 

“Lord — lordship?” ejaculated Trott again, falling 
back a step or two, and gazing, in unutterable wonder, on 
the countenance of the mayor. 

“ Ha-ha ! I see, my lord — practising the madman ? 
— very good indeed — very vacant look — capital, my ; 
lord, capital — good evening, Mr. — Trott — ha ! ha ! 
ha!” 

“ That mayor’s decidedly drunk,” soliloquized Mr. ' 
Trott, throwing himself back in his chair, in an attitude 
of reflection. j 

“ He is a much cleverer fellow than I thought him, 
that young nobleman — he carries it off uncommonly 
well,” thought Overton, as he went his way to the bar, 
there to complete his arrangements. This was soon 
done. Every word of the story was implicitly believed, 
and the one-eyed boots was immediately instructed to 
repair to number nineteen, to act as custodian of the per- , 
son of the supposed lunatic until half-past twelve o’clock. 

In pursuance of this direction, that somewhat eccentric | 
gentleman armed himself with a walking-stick of gigan- 
tic dimensions, and repaired, with his usual equanimity 
of manner, to Mr. Trott’s apartment, which he entered 
without any ceremony, and mounted guard in, by quietly 
depositing himself on a chair near the door, where he 
proceeded to beguile the time by wliistling a popular air 
with great apparent satisfaction. 

“What do you want here, you scoundrel?’' exclaimed 
Mr. Alexander Trott, with a proper appearance of indig- 
nation at his detention. 


THE GREAT WINGLEBURY DUEL. 


223 


. The boots beat time with his head, as he looked gently 
round at Mr. Trott with a smile of pity, and whistled an 
adagio movement. 

“ Do you attend in this room by Mr. Overton’s de- 
sire ? ” inquired Trott, rather astonished at the man’s 
demeanor. 

“ Keep yourself to yourself, young feller,” calmly re- 
sponded the boots, “ and don’t say nothin’ to nobody.” 
And he whistled again. 

“ Now, mind I ” ejaculated Mr. Trott, anxious to keep 
up the farce of wishing with great earnestness to fight a 
duel if they’d let him. “ I protest against being kept 
here. I deny that 1 have any intention of fighting with 
anybody. But, as it’s useless contending with superior 
numbers, I shall sit quietly down.” 

“ You’d better,” observed the placid boots, shaking the 
large stick expressively. 

“ Under protest, however,” added Alexander Trott, 
seating himself, with indignation in his face, but great 
content in his heart. “ Under protest.” 

“ Oh, certainly ! ” responded the boots ; “ anything you 
please. If you’re happy. I’m transported ; only don’t 
talk too much — itTl make you worse.” 

“ Make me worse ? ” exclaimed Trott, in unfeigned 
astonishment : “ The man’s drunk ! ” 

“ You’d better be quiet, young feller,” remarked the 
boots, going through a threatening piece of pantomime 
i with the stick. 

“ Or mad ! ” said Mr. Trott, rather alarmed. “ Leave 
i the room, sir, and tell them to send somebody else.” 

I “ Won’t do ! ” replied the boots. 

“Leave the room I” shouted Trott, rinmns: the bell 
I riolently ; for he began to be alarmed on a new score. 


224 


SKETCHES BY BOZ. 


‘‘ Leave that ’ere bell alone, you wretched loo-nattic ! ” 
said the boots, suddenly forcing the unfortunate Trott 
back into his chair, and brandishing the stick aloft. “ Be 
quiet, you mis’rable object, and don’t let everybody know 
there’s a madman in the house.” 

“ He is a madman ! He is a madman ! ” exclaimed 
the terrified Mr. Trott, gazing on the one eye of the red- 
neaded boots with a look of abject horror. 

“ Madman ! ” replied the boots, “ dam’me, I think he 
is a madman with a vengeance ! Listen to me, you un- 
fort’nate. Ah ! would you ? ” [a slight tap on the head 
with the large stick, as Mr. Trott made another move 
towards the bell-handle] I caught you there ! did I ? ” 

“ Spare my life ! ” exclaimed Trott, raising his hands 
imploringly. 

“1 don’t want your life,” replied the boots, disdahi- 
fully, though I think it ’ud be a charity if somebody 
took it.” 

“ No, no, it wouldn’t,” interrupted poor Mi'. Trott, 
hurriedly ; “ no, no, it wouldn’t ! I — I — ’d rather keep 
it ! ” 

0 werry well,” said the boots ; that’s a mere mat- 

ter of taste — ev’ry one to his liking. Hows’ever, all 
I've got to say is this here : You sit quietly dowm in that 
chair, and I’ll sit hoppersite you here, and if you keep 
quiet and don’t stir, I won’t damage you ; but if you 
move hand or foot till half-past twelve o’clock, I shall 
alter the expression of your countenance so completely, 
that tlie next time you look in the glass you’ll ask vether 
you’re gone out of town, and ven you’re likely to come v‘ 
back again. So sit down.” | 

1 will — I will,” responded the victim of mistakes 
and down sat Mr. Trott and down sat the boots too, ex-| 


THE GREAT WINGLEBURY DUEL. 


225 


actly opposite him, with the stick ready for immediate 
action in case of emergency. 

Long and dreary were the hours that followed. The 
bell of Great Winglebury church had just struck ten, 
and two hours and a half would probably elapse before 
succor arrived. For lialf an houi*, the noise occasioned 
by shutting up the shops in the street beneath, betokened 
something like life in the town, and rendered Mr. Trott's 
situation a little less insupportable ; but, when even these 
ceased, and nothing was heard beyond the occasional 
rattling of a post-chaise as it drove up the yard to 
change horses, and then drove away again, or the clat- 
tering of horses’ hoofs in the stables behind, it became 
almost unbearable. The boots occasionally moved an 
inch or two, to knock superfluous bits of wax off the 
candles, which were burning low, but instantaneously 
resumed his former position ; and as he remembered to 
have heard, somewhere or other, that the human eye had 
an unfailing effect in controlling mad people, he kept his 
solitary organ of vision constantly fixed on Mr. Alex- 
ander Trott. That unfortunate individual stared at his 
companion in his turn, until his features grew more and 
more indistinct — his hair gradually less red — and the 
room more misty and obscure. Mr. Alexander Trott 
fell into a sound sleep, from which he was awakened 
by a rumbling in the street, and a cry of “ Chaise-and- 
four for number t\venty-five ! ” A bustle on the stairs 
succeeded ; the room-door was hastily thrown open ; and 
Mr. Joseph Overton entered, followed by four stout 
waiters, and Mrs. Williamson, the stout landlady of the 
Winglebury Arms. 

“ Mr. Overton ! ” exclaimed JMr. Alexander Trott, 
jumping up in a frenzy, “ Look at this man, sir ; con- 

VOL. II. 15 


226 


SKETCHES BY BOZ. 


Bider llie situation in which I have been placed for three { 
hours past — the person you sent to guard me, sir, was 
a madman — a madman — a raging, ravaging, furious 
madman.” 

“ Bravo ! ” whispered Overton. i 

Poor dear ! ” said the compassionate Mrs. Wil- 
liamson, “ mad people always thinks other people’s | 
mad.” I 

Poor dear ! ” ejaculated Mr. Alexander Trott, “ What 
the devil do you mean by poor dear ! Are you the land- | 
lady of this house ? ” ' 

“ Yes, yes,” replied the stout old lady, ‘‘ don’t exert | 

yourself, there’s a dear ! Consider your health, now ; | 

do.” 

Exert myself!” shouted Mr. Alexander Trott, “it’s 
a mercy, ma’am, that I liave any breath to exert myself 
with ! I might have been assassinated three hours ago 
by that one-eyed monster wdth the oakum head. How 
dare you have a madman, ma’am, how dare you have 
a madman, to assault and terrify the visitors to your 
house ? ” 

“ I’ll never have another,” said Mrs. Williamson, cast- 
ing a look of reproach at the mayor. ^ 

“ Capital, capital,” whispered Overton again, as he 
enveloped Mr. Alexander Trott in a thick travelling- 
cloak. I 

“ Capital, sir 1 ” exclaimed Trott, aloud, “ it’s horrible. 
The very recollection makes me shudder. I’d rather 
fight four duels in three hours, if I survived the first 
three, than I’d sit for that time face to face with a 
madman.” 

“ Keep it up, my Lord, as you go down-stairs,” wdiis- | 
pered Overton, your bill is paid, and your portmanteau 


THE GREAT WINGLEBURY DUEL. 


227 


in the chaise.” And then, he added aloud, “ Now, wait* 
ers, the gentleman’s ready.” 

At this signal, the Avaiters crowded round Mr. Alex- 
ander Trott. One, took one arm ; another, the other ; a 
third, walked before with a candle ; the fourth, behind, 
with another candle: the boots and Mrs.AVilliamson 
brought up the rear ; and doAvn-stairs they AA^ent : Mr. 
Alexander Trott,^ ex pressing alternately at the very top 
of his voice either his feigned reluctance to go, or his 
unfeigned indignation at being shut up with a madman. 

Mr. Overton Avas waiting at the chaise-door, the boys 
were ready mounted, and a few hostlers and stable nonde- 
scripts Avere standing round to witness the departure of 
‘‘ the mad gentleman.” Mr. Alexander Trott’s foot was 
on the step, when he observed (Avhich the dim light had 
prevented his doing before) a figure seated in the 'chaise, 
closely muffled up in a cloak like his OAvn. 

“ Who’s that ? ” he inquired of Overton in a Avhisper. 

“ Hush, hush,” replied the mayor ; ‘‘ the other party 
of course.” 

“ The other party ! ” exclaimed Trott, with an effort 
to retreat. 

‘‘ Yes, yes ; you'll soon find that out, before you go far, 
I should think — but make a noise, you’ll excite suspicion 
if you Avhisper to me so much.” 

‘‘ I Avon’t go in this chaise ! ” shouted Mr. Alexander 
Trott, all his orii>^inal fears recurrin" Avith tenfold vio- 
lence. “ I shall be assassinated — I shall be — ” 

‘‘ Bravo, bravo,” Avhispered Overton. “ I’ll push you 
in.” 

But I Avon’t go,” exclaimed Mr. Trott. “ Help here, 
help ! They’re carrying me aAvay against my will. This 
is a plot to murder me.” 


228 


SKETCHES BY BOZ. 


‘‘ Poor dear ! ” said Mrs. Williamson again. 

“ Now, boys, put ’em along,” cried the mayor, pushing 
Trott in and slamming the door. “ Off with you, as 
quick as you can, and stop for nothing till you come to 
the next stage — all right ! ” 

“ Horses are paid, Tom,” screamed Mrs. Williamson ; 
and away went the chaise, at the rate of fourteen miles 
an hour, with Mr. Alexander Trott and Miss Julia Man- 
ners carefully shut up in the inside. 

Mr. Alexander Trott remained coiled up in one corner 
of the chaise, and his mysterious companion in the other, 
for the first two or three miles ; Mr. Trott edging more 
and more into his corner, as he felt his companion gradu- 
ally edging more and more from hers ; and vainly en- 
deavoring in the darkness to catch a glimpse of the 
furious, face of the supposed Horace Hunter. 

“We may speak now,” said his fellow-traveller, at 
length; “the post-boys can neither see nor hear us.” 

“ That’s not Hunter’s voice ! ” — thought Alexander, 
astonished. 

“ Dear Lord Peter ! ” said Miss Julia, most winningly ; 
putting her arm on Mr. Trott’s shoulder. Dear Lord 
Peter. Not a word ? ” 

“ Wliy, it’s a woman ! ” exclaimed Mr. Trott, in a low 
tone of excessive wonder. 

“ Ah ! Whose voice is that ? ” said Julia ; “ ’tis not 
Lord Peter’s.” 

“ No, — it’s mine,” replied Mr. Trott. 

“ Yours ! ” ejaculated Miss Julia Manners ; “ a strange 
man ! Gracious heaven ! How came you here ? ” 

“ Whoever you are, you might have known that I came 
against my will, ma’am,” replied Alexander, “ for I made 
noise enough when I got in.” 


THE GREAT WINGLEBURY DUEL. 


229 


“ Do you come from Lord Peter ? ” inquired Miss 
Manners. 

Confound Lord Peter,” replied Trott pettishly. “ I 
don’t know any Lord Peter. I never heard of him be- 
fore to-night, when Ive been Lord Peter’d by one and 
Lord Peter’d by another, till I verily believe I’m mad, 
or dreaming — ” 

“ Whither are we going ? ” inquired the lady tragi- 
cally. 

“ How should / know, ma’am ? ” replied Trott with 
singular coolness ; for the events of the evening had 
completely hardened him. 

[ Stop ! stop ! ” cried the lady, letting down the front 

glasses of the chaise. 

I “ Stay, my dear ma’am ! ” said Mr. Trott, pulling the 
; glasses up again with one hand, and gently squeezing 
Miss Julia’s waist with the other. “ There is some mis- 
I take here ; give me till the end of this stage to explain 
my share of it. We must go so far ; you cannot be set 
down here alone, at this hour of the night.” 

The lady consented ; the mistake was mutually ex- 
plained, Mr. Trott was a young man, had highly promis- 

I ing whiskers, an undeniable tailor, and ’ an insinuating 
address — he wanted nothing but valor, and who wants 
that with three thousand a year ? The lady had this, 

^ and more ; she wanted a young husband, and the only 
course open to Mr. Trott to retrieve his disgrace was a 
rich wife. So, they came to the conclusion that it would 
be a pity to have all this trouble and expense for noth- 
ing ; and that as they were so far on the road already, 
they had better go to Gretna Green, and marry each 
other ; and they did so. And the very next preceding 
entry in the Blacksmith’s book, was an entry of the mar* * 


230 


SKETCHES BY BOZ. 


riage of Emily Brown with Horace Hunter. Mr. Hun- 
ter took his wife home, and begged pardon, and was par- 
doned ; and Mr. Trott took his wife home, begged pardon 
too, and was pardoned also. And Lord Peter, who had 
been detained beyond his time by drinking champagne 
and riding a steeple-chase, went back to the Honorable 
Augustus Flair’s and drank more champagne, and rode 
another steeple-chase, and was thrown and killed. And 
Horace Hunter took great credit to himself for practis- 
ing on the cowardice of Alexander Trott ; and all these 
circumstances were discovered in time, and carefully 
noted down ; and if you ever stop a week at the Wingle- 
bury Arms, they will give you just this account of The 
Great Winglebury Duel. 


CHAPTER IX. 

MRS. JOSEPH PORTER. 

Most extensive were the preparations at Rose Villa, 
Clapham Rise,’ in the occupation of Mr. Gattleton (a 
stockbroker in especially comfortable circumstances), and 
great was the anxiety of Mr. Gattleton’s interesting 
family, as the day fixed for the representation of the 
Private Play which had been “ many months in prepara- 
tion,” approached. The whole family was infected with 
the mania for Private Theatricals ; the house, usually so 
clean and tidy, was, to use Mr. Gattleton’s expressive 
description, “ regularly turned out o’ windows ; ” the 
large dining-room, dismantled of its furniture and orna- 
ments, presented a strange jumble of fiats, dies, wings, 


MRS. JOSEPH PORTER. 


231 


lamps, bridges, clouds, thunder and lightning, festoons 
and flowers, daggers and foil, and various other messes 
in theatrical slang included under the comprehensive 
name of “ properties.” The bedrooms were crowded 
with scenery, the kitchen was occupied by cai’penters. 
Kehearsals took place every other night in the drawing- 
room, and every sofa in the house was more or less dam- 
^ aged by the perseverance and spirit with which Mr. 
Sempronius Gattlelon, and Miss Lucina, rehearsed the 
smothering scene in Othello ” — it having been deter- 
mined that that tragedy should form the first portion of 
the evening’s entertainments. 

“ When we’re a leetle more perfect, I think it will go 
admirably,” said Mr. Sempronius, addressing his corps 
dramatique, at the conclusion of tlie hundred and fiftieth 
rehearsal. In consideration of his sustaining the trifling 
inconvenience of bearing all the expenses of the play, 
Mr. Sempronius had been, in the most handsome manner, 
unanimously elected stage-manager. Evans,” continued 
I Mr. Gattleton, the younger, addressing a tall, thin, pale 
young gentleman, with extensive whiskers. Evans, you 
play Roderigo beautifully.” 

“ Beautifully ! ” echoed the three Miss Gattletons ; for 
Mr. Evans was pronounced bj^ all his lady friends to be 
‘‘ quite a dear.” He looked so interesting, and had such 
lovely whiskers : to say nothing of his talent for writing 
verses in albums and playing the flute ! Roderigo sim- 
pered and bowed. 

“ But I think,” added the manager, “ you are hardly 
perfect in the — fall — in the fencing-scene, where you 
are — you understand ? ” 

“It’s very difficult,” said Mr. Evans, thoughtfully; 


232 


SKETCHES BY BOZ. 


“ Tve fallen about, a good deal, in our counting-house 
lately for practice, only I find it hurts one so. Being 
obliged to fall backwards you see, it bruises one’s head 
a good deal.” 

“ But you must take care you don't knock a wing 
down,” said Mr. Gattleton, the elder, who had been ap- 
pointed prompter, and who took as much interest in the 
play as the youngest of the company. “ The stage is 
very narrow^, you know.” 

“ Oh ! don't be afraid,” said Mr. Evans, with a very 
self-satisfied air : “ I shall fall v/ith my head ‘ off,’ and 
then I can’t do any harm.” 

“ But, egad ! ” said the manager, rubbing his hands, 
“ we shall make a decided hit in ‘ Masaniello.’ Harleigh 
sings that music admirably.” 

Everybody echoed the sentiment. Mr. Harleigh smiled, 
and looked foolish — not an unusual thing with him — 
hummed “ Behold how brightly breaks the morning,” 
and blushed as red as the fisherman’s nightcap he was 
trying on. 

“ Let’s see,” resumed the manager, telling the number 
on his fingers, “ we shall have three dancing female peas- 
ants, besides Fenella^ and four fishermen. Then, there’s 
our man Tom ; he can have a pair of ducks of mine, and 
a check shirt of Bob’s, and a red nightcap, and he’ll do 
for another — that’s five. In the choruses, of course, we 
can sing at the sides ; and in the market-scene, we can 
walk about in cloaks and things. When the revolt takes 
place, Tom must keep rushing in on one side and out on 
the other, with a pickaxe, as fast as he can. The effect 
will be electrical ; it will look exactly as if there were 
an immense number of ’em. And in the eruption scene 


MRS. JOSEPH PORTER. 


233 


we must burn the red fire, and upset the tea-trays, and 
make all sorts of noises — and it’s sure to do.” 

“ Sure ! sure ! ” cried all the performers xina voce — 
and away hurried Mr. Sempronius Gattleton to wash the 
burnt cork off his face, and superintend the ‘‘ setting up ” 
of some of the amateur-painted, and never-sufficiently- 
to-be-admired, scenery. 

Mrs. Gattleton was a kind, good-tempered, vulgar soul, 
exceedingly fond of her husband and children, and enter- 
taining only three dislikes. In the first place, she had a 
natural antipathy to anybody else’s unmarried daughters ; 
in the second, she was in bodily fear of anything in the 
shape of ridicule ; lastly — almost a necessary conse- 
quence of this feeling — she regarded, with feelings of 
the utmost horror, one Mrs. Joseph Porter over the way. 
However, the good folks of Clapham and its vicinity 
stood very much in awe of scandal and sarcasm ; and 
thus ]Mrs. Joseph Porter was courted, and flattered, and 
caressed, and invited, for much the same reason that in- 
duces a poor author, without a farthing in his pocket, to 
behave with extraordinary civility to a two-penny post- 
man. 

“ Never mind, ma,” said Miss Emma Porter, in collo- 
quy with her respected relative, and trying to look uncon- 
cerned ; “ if they had invited me, you know that neither 
you nor pa would have allowed me to take part in such 
an exhibition.” 

“ Just what I should have thought from your high 
sense of propriety,” returned the mother. “ I am glad 
to see, Emma, you know how to designate the proceed- 
ing.” Miss P., by the by, had only the week before 
made “ an exhibition ” of herself for four days, behind a 
counter at a fancy fair, to all and every of her Majesty’s 


234 


SKETCHES BY BOZ. 


liege subjects who were disposed to pay a shilling each 
for the privilege of seeing some four dozen girls flirting 
with strangers, and playing at shop. 

There ! ” said Mrs. Porter, looking out of window ; 

there are two rounds of beef and a ham going in — 
clearly for sandwiches ; and Thomas, the pastry-cook, 
says, there have been twelve dozen tarts ordered, be- 
sides blanc-mange and jellies. Upon my word ! think 
of the Miss Gattletons in fancy dresses, too ! ” 

“ Oh, it’s too ridiculous ! ” said Miss Porter, hys- 
terically. 

“ I’ll manage to put them a little out of conceit with 
the business, however,” said Mrs. Porter ; and out she 
went on her charitable errand. 

“ Well, my dear Mrs. Gattleton,” said Mrs. Joseph 
Porter, after they had been closeted for some time, and 
when, by dint of indefatigable pumping, she had man- 
aged to extract all the news about the play, ‘‘ well, my 
dear, people may say what they please ; indeed we know 
they will, for some folks are so ill-natured. Ah, my dear 
Miss Lucina, how d’ye do? I was just telling your 
mamma that I have heard it said, that — ” 

“ What ? ” 

Mrs. Porter is alluding to the play, my dear,” said 
Mrs. Gattleton; “she was, I am sorry to say, just in- 
forming me that — ” 

“ Oh, now pray don’t mention it,” interrupted Mrs. 
Porter ; “ it’s most absurd — quite as absurd as young 
What’s-his-name saying he wondered how Miss Caroline 
with such a foot and ankle, could have the vanity to play 
Fenella'' 

“ Highly impertinent, whoever said it,” said Mrs. Gat- 
tleton, bridling up. 


MRS. JOSEPH PORTER. 


235 


“ Certainly, my dear,” chimed in the delighted Mrs. 
Porter ; “ most imdouhtedly ! Because, as I said, if Miss 
Caroline does play Fenella, it doesn't follow, as a matter 
of course, that she should think she has a pretty foot ; 
and then — such puppies as these young men are — he 
had the impudence to say, that — ” 

How far the amiable Mrs. Porter might have suc- 
ceeded in her pleasant purpose, it is impossible to say, 
had not the entrance of Mr. Thomas Balderstone, Mrs. 
Gattleton’s brother, familiarly called in the family “ Uncle 
Tom,” changed the course of conversation, and suggested 
to her mind an excellent plan of operation on the even- 
ing of the play. 

Uncle Tom was very rich, and exceedingly fond of his 
nephews and nieces : as a matter of course, therefore, 
he was an object of great importance in his own family 
He was one of the best-hearted men in existence ; always 
in a good temper, and always talking. It was his boast 
that he wore top-boots on all occasions, and had never 
worn a black silk neckerchief ; and it was his pride that 
he remembered all the principal plays of Shakspeare 
from beginning to end — and so he did. The result of 
this parrot-like accomplishment was, that he was not only 
perpetually quoting himself, but that he could never sit 
by and hear a misquotation from the “ Swan of Avon ” 
without setting the unfortunate delinquent right. He 
was also something of a wag ; never missed an oppor- 
tunity of saying what he considered a good thing, and 
invariably laughed until he cried at anything that ap- 
peared to him mirth-moving or ridiculous. 

“ Well, girls ! ” said Uncle Tom, after the preparatory 
ceremonyof kissing and how-d’ye-do-ing had been gone 
through — ‘‘ how d’ye get on ? Know your parts, eh ? — . 


236 


SKETCHES BY BOZ. 


Lucina, my dear, act ii., scene 1 — place, left — cue — 
‘ Unknown fate,’ — What’s next, eh ? — Go on — ^ The 
heavens — ’ ” 

“ Oh, yes,” said Miss Lucina, “ I recollect — 

‘ The heavens forbid 

But that our loves and comforts should increase 
Even as our days do grow !’ ” 

“ Make a pause here and there,” said the old gentle- 
man, who was a great critic. ‘ But that our loves and 
comforts should increase ’ — emphasis on the last sylla- 
ble, ‘ crease,’ — loud ‘ even,’ — one, two, three, four ; 
then loud again, ‘ as our days do grow ; ’ emphasis on 
days. That’s the way, my dear ; trust to your uncle for 
emphasis. Ah ! Sam, my boy, how are you ? ” 

Very ’well, thankee uncle,” returned Mr. Sempro- 
nius, who had just appeared, looking something like a 
ring-dove, with a small circle round each eye : the result 
of his constant corking. “ Of course we see you on 
Thursday.” 

“ Of course, of course, my dear boy.” 

“ What a pity it is your nephew didn’t think of mak- 
ing you prompter, Mr. Balderstone ! ” whispered Mrs. 
Joseph Porter ; “ you would have been invaluable.” 

‘‘ Well, I flatter myself, I should have been tolerably 
up to the thing,” responded Uncle Tom. 

I must bespeak sitting next you on the night,” re- 
sumed Mrs. Porter ; “ and then, if our dear young friends 
here should be at all wrong, you will be able to enlighten 
me. I shall be so interested.” 

‘‘ I am sure I shall be most happy to give you any 
assistance in my power.” 

“ Mind, it’s a bargain.” 

‘‘ Certainly.” ^ 


MRS. JOSEPH PORTER. 


287 


‘‘ I don’t know how it is,” said Mrs. Gattleton to her 
daughters, as they were sitting round the fire in the even* 
ing, looking over their parts, ‘‘ but I really very much 
wish jMrs. Joseph Porter wasn’t coming on Thursday. 
I am sure she’s scheming something.” 

“ She can’t make us ridiculous, however,” observed 
Mr. Sempronius Gattleton, haughtily. 

The long-look ed-for Thursday arrived in due course, 
and brought with it, as Mr. Gattleton, senior, philo- 
sophically observed, “ no disappointments to speak of.” 
True, it was yet a matter of doubt whether Cassio would 
be enabled to get into the dress which had been sent for 
him from the masquerade warehouse. It was equally 
uncertain whether the principal female singer would be 
sufficiently recovered from the influenza to make her 
appearance ; Mr. Harleigh, the Masaniello of the night, 
was hoarse, and rather unwell, in consequence of the 
great quantity of lemon and sugar-candy he had eaten to 
improve his voice ; and two flutes and a violoncello had 
pleaded severe colds. What of that ? the audience were 
all coming. Everybody knew his part ; the dresses were 
covered with tinsel and spangles ; the white plumes 
looked beautiful ; Mr. Evans had practised falling until 
he was bruised from head to foot and quite perfect ; lago 
was sure that in the stabbing-scene, he should make “ a 
decided hit.” A self-taught deaf gentleman, who had 
kindly offered to bring his flute, would be a most valu- 
able addition to the orchestra ; Miss Jenkins’s talent for 
the piano was too well known to be doubted for an in- 
stant ; Mr. Cape had practised the violin accompaniment 
with her, frequently ; and Mr. Brown, who had kindly 
undertaken, at a few hours’ notice, to bring his violon- 
cello, would, no doubt, manage extremely well. 


238 


SKETCHES BY BOZ. 


Seven o’clock came, and so did the audience : all the 
rank and fashion of Clapham and its vicinity was fast 
filling the theatre. There were the Smiths, the Gub- 
binses, the Nixons, the Dixons, the Hicksons, people 
with all sorts of names, two aldermen, a sheriff in per- 
spective, Sir Thomas Glumper (who had been knighted 
in the last reign for carrying up an address on some- 
body’s escaping, from nothing) ; and last, not least, there 
were Mrs. Joseph Porter and Uncle Tom, seated in the 
centre of the third row from the stage ; Mrs. P. amu>ing 
Uncle Tom with all sorts of stories, and Uncle Tom 
amusing every one else by laughing most immoderately. 

Ting, ting, ting 1 went the prompter's bell at eight 
o’clock precisely, and dash went the orchestra into the 
overture to ‘‘ The Men of Prometheus.” The pianoforte 
player hammered away with laudable perseverance ; and 
the violoncello, which struck in at intervals, “ sounded 
very w^ell, considering.” The unfortunate individual, 
however, who had undertaken to play the flute accom- 
paniment at sight,” found, from fatal experience, the 
perfect truth of the old adage, out of sight, out of 
mind ; ” for being very near-sighted, and being placed at 
a considerable distance from his music-book, all he had 
an opportunity of doing was to play a bar now- and then 
in the wu'ong place, and put the other performers out. 
Jt is, however, but justice to Mr. Browm to say that he 
did this to admiration. The overture, in fact, was not 
unlike a race between the different in.-truments ; the 
piano came in first by several bars, and the violoncello 
next, quite distancing the poor flute ; for the deaf gentle- 
man too4ood away, quite unconscious that he was at all 
wrong, until apprised by the applause of the audience, 
that the overture w^as concluded. A considerable bustle 


MRS. JOSEPH PORTER. 


239 


and shuffling of feet was then heard upon the stage, 
accompanied by whispers of ‘‘ Here’s a pretty go ! — 
what’s to be done ? ” &c. The audience applauded 
again, by way of raising the spirits of the performers; 
and then ]\Ir. Sempronius desired the prompter, in a 
very audible voice, to clear tlie stage, and ring up.” 

Ting, ting, ting ! went the bell again. Everybody sat 
down ; the curtain shook ; rose sufficiently high to dis- 
play several pair of yellow boots paddling about ; and 
there remained. 

Ting, ting, ting ! went the bell again. The curtain 
was violently convulsed, but rose no higher ; the audi- 
ence tittered ; Mrs. Porter looked at Uncle Tom ; Uncle 
Tom looked at everybody, rubbing his hands, and laugh- 
ing with perfect rapture. After as much ringing with 
the little bell as a muffin-boy would make in going down 
a tolerably long street, and a vast deal of whispering, 
hammering, and calling for nails and cord, the curtain at 
length rose, and discovered Mr. Sem})ronius Gattleton, 
solus, and decked for Othello. After three distinct rounds 
of applause, during wffiicb Mr. Sempronius applied his 
right hand to his left breast, and bowed in the most 
approved manner, the manager advanced, and said : 

Ladies and Gentlemen — 1 assure you it is with sin- 
cere regret, that I regret to be compelled to inform you, 
that logo who was to have played Mr. Wilson — I beg 
your pardon. Ladies and Gentlemen, but I am naturally 
somewhat agitated (applause) — I mean, Mr. Wilson, 
who was to have played logo, is — that is, has been — 
or, in other words. Ladies and Gentlemen, the fact is, 
that I have just received a note, in which I am informed 
that lago is unavoidably detained at the Post-office this 
evening. Under these circumstances, I trust — a — a — 


240 


SKETCHES BY BOZ. 


amateur performance — a — another gentleman under- 
taken to read the part — requests indulgence for a short 
time — courtesy and kindness of a British audience.’' 
Overwhelming applause. Exit Mr. Sempronius Gattle- 
ton, and curtain fads. 

The audience were, of course, exceedingly good 
humored ; the whole business was a joke ; and accord- 
ingly they waited for an hour with the utmost patience, 
being enlivened by an interlude of rout-cakes and lemon- 
ade. It appeared by Mr. Sempronius’s subsequent ex- 
planation, that the delay would not have been so great, 
had it not so happened that when the substitute lago had 
finished dressing, and just as the play was on the point 
of commencing, the original lago unexpectedly arrived. 
The former was therefore compelled to undress, and the 
latter to dress for his j)art ; Avhich as he found some 
difficulty in getting into his clothes, occupied no incon- 
siderable time. At last, the tragedy began in real ear- 
nest. It went off well enough, until the third scene of 
the first act, in which Othello addresses the Senate : the 
only remarkable circumstance being, that as lago could 
not get on any of the stage-boots, in consequence of his 
feet being violently swelled with the heat and excite- 
ment, he was under tlie necessity of playing the part in 
a pair of Wellingtons, which contrasted rather oddly 
with his richly embroidered pantaloons. When Othello 
started with his address to the Senate (whose dignity 
was represented by the Diike^ a carpenter, two men 
engaged on the recommendation of the gardener, and a 
boy), Mrs. Porter found the opportunity she so anxiously 
sought. 

Mr. Sempronius proceeded : 


MRS. JOSEPH PORTER. 


241 


Most potent, grave, anti reverend signiors, 

My very noble and approv’d good masters, 

That I have ta’en away this old man’s daughter, 

It is most true; — rude am I in my speech — ’ ” 

“ Is that right ? ” whispered Mrs. Porter to Uncle 
Tom. 

“ No.” 

‘‘ Tell him so, then.” 

“ I will. Sem ! ” called out Uncle Tom, that’s wrong, 
rnj boy.” 

‘‘ What’s wrong, Uncle ? ” demanded Othello, quite for- 
getting the dignity of his situation. 

“ You’ve left out something. ‘ True I have mar- 
ried— ”’ 

Oh, ah ! ” said Mr. Sempronius, endeavoring to hide 
his confusion as much and as ineffectually as the au- 
dience attempted to conceal their half-suppressed titter- 
ing, by coughing with extraordinary violence — 

“ ‘ true 1 have married her ; — 

The very head and front of my offending 
Hath this extent; no more.’ 

{Aside) Why don’t you prompt, father ? ” 

“ Because I’ve mislaid my spectacles,” said poor Mr. 
Gattleton, almost dead with the heat and bustle. 

‘‘ There, now it’s ‘ rude am I,’ ” said Uncle Tom. 

Yes, I know it is,” returned the unfortunate man- 
ager, proceeding with his part. 

It would be useless and tiresome to quote the number 
of instances in wdiich Uncle Tom, now completely in his 
element, and instigated by the mischievous Mrs. Porter, 
corrected the mistakes of the performers ; suffice it to 
say, that having mounted his hobby, nothing could in- 
duce him to dismount ; so, during the whole remainder 

VOL. II. 16 


242 


SKETCHES BY BOZ. 


of the he performed a kind of running accompani- 
ment, by muttering everybody’s part as it was being 
delivered, in an undertone. The audience were highly 
amused, Mrs. Porter delighted, the performers embar- 
rassed ; Uncle Tom never was better pleased in all his 
life; and Uncle Tom's nephews and nieces had never, 
although the declared heirs to his large property, so 
heartily wished him gathered to his fathers as on that 
memorable occasion. 

Several other minor causes, too, united to damp the 
ardor of the dramatis personce. None of the performers 
could walk in their tights, or move their arms in their 
jackets ; the pantaloons were too small, the boots too 
large, and the swords of all sliapes and sizes. Mr. 
Evans, naturally too tall for the scenery, wore a black 
velvet hat with immense white plumes, the glory of 
which was lost in ‘‘ the flies ; ” and the only other incon- 
venience of which was, that when it was off his head he 
could not put it on, and when it was on he could not 
take it off. Notwithstanding all his practice, too, he fell 
with his head and shoulders as neatly through one of the 
side scenes, as a harlequin would jump through a panel 
in a Christmas pantomime. The pianoforte player, over- 
powered by the extreme heat of the room, fainted away 
at the commencement of the entei-tainments, leaving the 
music of “ Masaniello ” to the flute and violoncello. The 
orchestra complained that Mr. Harleigh put them out, 
and Mr. Harleigh declared that the orchestra pre^'ented 
his singing a note. The fishermen, who were hired for 
the occasion, revolted to the very life, positively refusing 
to play without an increased allowance of spirits ; and, 
their demand being complied with, getting drunk in the 
eruption scene as naturally as possible. The red fire, 


MRS. JOSEPH PORTER. 


243 


which was burnt at the conclusion of the second act, not 
only nearly suffocated the audience, but nearly set the 
house on fire into the bargain ; and, as it was, the re- 
mainder of the piece was acted in a thick fog. 

In short, the whole affair was, as Mrs. Joseph Porter 
triumpiiantly told everybody, “ a complete failure.” The 
audience went home at four o’clock in the morning, ex- 
hausted with laughter, suffering from severe headaches, 
and smelling terribly of brimstone and gunpowder. The 
Messrs. Gattleton, senior and junior, retired to rest, with 
the vague idea of emigrating to Swan River early in the 
ensuing week. 

Rose Villa has once again resumed its wonted appear- 
ance ; the dining-room furniture has been replaced ; the 
tables are as nicely polished as formerly ; the horsehair 
chairs are ranged against the wall, as regularly as ever ; 
Venetian blinds have been fitted to every window in the 
house to intercept the prying gaze of JMrs. Joseph Porter. 
The subject of theatricals is never mentioned in the Gat- 
tleton family, unless, indeed, by Uncle Tom, who cannot 
refrain from sometimes expressing his surprise and re- 
gret at finding that his nephews and nieces appear to 
have lost the relish they once possessed for the beauties 
of Shakspeare, and quotations from the works of that 
immortal bard. ^ 


244 


SKETCHES BY BOZ. 


CHAPTER X. 

A PASSAGE IN THE LIFE OF MR. WATKINS TOTILE. 

CHAPTER THE FIRST. 

Matrimony is proverbially a serious undertaking. 
Like an overweening predilection for brandj-and-water, 
it is a misfortune into which a man easily falls, and from 
which he finds it remarkably difficult to extricate himself. 
It is of no use telling a man who is timorous on these 
points, that it is but one plunge, and all is over. They 
say the same thing at the Old Bailey, and the unfortu- 
nate victims derive as much comfort from the assurance 
in the one case as in the other. 

Mr. Watkins Tottle was a rather uncommon compound 
of strong uxorious inclinations, and an unparalleled 
degree of anti-connubial timidity. He was about fifty 
years of age ; stood four feet six inches and three- 
% quarters in his socks — for he never stood in stocking at 
all — plump, clean, and rosy. He looked something like 
a vignette to one of Richardson’s novels, and had a clean- 
cravatish formality of manner, and kitchen-pokerness of 
carriage, which Sir Charles Grandison himself might 
have envied. He lived on an annuity, which was well 
adapted to the individual who received it, in one respect 
— it was rather small. He received it in periodical pay- 
ments on every alternate Monday ; but he ran himself out, 
about a day after the expiration of the first week, as 
regularly as an eight-day clock ; and then, to make the 


245 


# 

MR. WATKINS TOTTLE. 

comparison complete, his landlady wound him up, and he 
went on with a regular tick. 

Mr. Watkins Tottle had long lived in a state of single 
blessedness, as bachelors say, or single cursedness, as 
spinsters think ; but the idea of matrimony had never 
ceased to haunt him. Wrapt in profound reveries on 
this never-failing theme, fancy transformed his small 
parlor in Cecil Street, Strand, into a neat house in the 
suburbs; the half - hundredweight of coals under the 
kitchen-stairs suddenly sprang up into three tons of 
the best Walls End ; his small French bedstead was 
converted into a regular matrimonial four-poster ; and in 
the empty chair on the opposite side of the fireplace, 
imagination seated a beautiful young lady, with a very 
little independence or will of her own, and a very large 
independence under a will of her father’s. 

“Who’s there?” inquired Mr. Watkins Tottle, as a 
gentle tap at his room-door disturbed these meditations 
one evening. 

“ Tottle, my dear fellow, how do you do ? ” said a 
short elderly gentleman with a gruffish voice, bursting 
into the room, and replying to the question by asking 
another. 

“ Told you I should drop in some evening,” said the 
short gentleman, as he delivered his hat into Tottle’s 
hand, after a little struggling and dodging. 

“ Delighted to see you. I’m sure,” said Mr. Watkins 
Tottle, wishing internally that his visitor had “ dropped 
in ” to the Thames at the bottom of the street, instead 
of dropping into his parlor. The fortnight was nearly 
up, and Watkins was hard up. 

“ How is Mrs. Gabriel Parsons ? ” inquired Tottle. 

‘4 Quite well, thank you,” replied Mr. Gabriel Parsons, 


246 


% 

SKETCHES BY BOZ. 

for that was the name the short gentleman revelled in. 
Here there was a pause ; the short gentleman looked at 
the left hob of the fireplace ; Mr. Watkins Tottle stared 
vacancy out of countenance. 

“ Quite well,” repeated the short gentleman, when five 
minutes had expired. “ I may say remarkably well.” 
And he rubbed the palms of his hands as hard as if he 
were going to strike a light by friction. 

What will you take ? ” inquired Tottle, with the des- 
perate suddenness of a man who knew that unless the 
visitor took his leave, he stood very little chance of tak- 
ing anything else. 

“ Oh, I don’t know. — Have you any whiskey ? ” 

“ Why,” replied Tottle, very slowly, for all this was 
gaining time, “ I had some capital, and remarkably 
strong whiskey last week ; but it’s all gone — and there- 
fore its strength — ” 

‘‘ Is much beyond proof ; or, in other words, impossible 
to be proved,” said the short gentleman ; and he laughed 
very heartily, and seemed quite glad the whiskey had 
been drunk. Mr. Tottle smiled — but it was the smile 
of despair. When Mr. Gabriel Parsons bad done laugh- 
j ing, he delicately insinuated that, in the absence of whis- 
key, he would not be averse to brandy. And INIr. 
Watkins Tottle, lighting a flat candle very ostenta- 
tiously ; and displaying an immense key, which belonged 
to the street-door, but which, for the sake of appearances, 
occasionally did duty in an imaginary wine-cellar ; left 
the room to entreat his landlady to charge their glasses, 
and charge them in the bill. The application was suc- 
cessful ; the spirits ^vere speedily called — not from the 
vasty deep, but the adjacent wine-vaults. The two 
short gentlemen mixed their grog ; and then sat cosily 


247 


MR. WATKINS TOTTLE. 

down before the fire — a pair of shorts, airing them- 
selves. 

“ Tot tie,’’ said Mr. Gabriel Parsons, “ you know my 
way — off-hand, open, say what I mean, mean what I 
say, hate reserve, and can’t bear affectation. One, is a 
bad domino which only hides what good people have 
about ’em, without making the bad look better ; and the 
other is much about the same thing as pinking a white 
cotton stocking to make it look like a silk one. Now 
listen to what I’m going to say.” 

Here, the little gentleman paused, and took a long 
pull at his brandy-and-water. Mr. Watkins Tottle took 
a sip of his, stirred the fire, and assumed an aii* of pro- 
found attention. 

“ It’s of no use humming and ha’ing about the mat- 
ter,” resumed the short gentleman, — ‘‘ you want to get 
married.” 

“ Why,” replied Mr. Watkins Tottle, evasively ; for 
he trembled violently, and felt a sudden tingling through- 
out his whole frame; why — I should certainly — at 
least, I think I should like — ” 

“ Won’t do,” said the short gentleman. — ‘‘Plain and 
free — or there’s an end of the matter. Do you want 
money ? ” 

“You know I do.” 

“You admire the sex?” 

“ I do.” 

“ And you’d like to be maiTied ? ” 

“ Certainly.” 

“ Then you shall be. There’s an end of that.” Thus 
saying, Mr. Gabriel Parsons took a pinch of snuff, and 
mixed another glass. 

“ Let me entreat you to be more explanatory,” said 


248 


% 

SKETCHES BY BOZ. 


Tottle. Really, as the party principally interested, I 
cannot consent to be disposed of, in this way.” 

“ I’ll tell you, replied Mr. Gabriel Parsons, warming 
with the subject, and the brandy-and-water. — ‘‘I know 
a lady — she’s stopping with my wife now — who’s just 
the thing for you. Well-educated; talks French; plays 
the piano ; knows a good deal about flowers and shells, 
and all that sort of thing ; and has five hundred a year, 
Avith an uncontrollable power of disposing of it, by her 
last will and testament.” 

‘M’ll pay my addresses to her,” said Mr. Watkins 
Tottle. “ She isn’t very young — is she ? ” 

‘‘Not very; just the thing for you. — I’ve said that 
already,” 

“ What colored hair has the lady ? ” inquired Mr. 
Watkins Tottle. 

“ Egad, I hardly recollect,” replied Gabriel Avith cool- 
ness. “ Perhaps I ought to have observed, at first, she 
wears a front.” 

“ A what ! ” ejaculated Tottle. 

“ One of those thing, with curls, along here,” said 
Parsons, drawing a straight line across his forehead, just 
over his eyes, in illustration of his meaning. “ I knoAV 
the front’s black: I can’t speak quite positively about 
her own hair ; because, unless one Avalks behind her, and 
catches a glimpse of it under her bonnet, one seldom sees 
it ; but I should say that it was rather lighter than the 
front — a shade of a grayish tinge, perhaps.” 

Mr. Watkins Tottle looked as if he had certain mis- 
givings of mind. Mr. Gabriel Parsons perceived it, 
and thought it Avould be safe to begin the next attack 
without delay. 

“ Now, Avere you ever in love, Tottle ? ” he inquired. 


MR. WATKINS TOTTLE. 


249 


Mr. Watkins Tottle blushed up to the eyes, and down 
to the chin, and exhibited a most extensive combination 
of colors as he confessed the soft impeachment. 

“ I suppose you popped the question, more than 
once, when you were a young — I beg your pardon — 
a younger — man,” said Parsons. 

“Never in my life ! ” replied his friend, apparently in- 
dignant at being suspected of such an act. “ Never ! The 
fact is, that I entertain, as you know, pecnlj^ir opinions 
on these subjects. I am not afraid of ladies, young or 
old — far from it ; but, I think, that in compliance with 
the custom of the present day, they allow too much free- 
dom of speech and manner to marriageable men. Now, 
the fact is, that anything like this easy freedom I never 
could acquire ; and as I 'am always afraid of going too 
far, I am generally, I dare say, considered formal and 
cold.” 

“I shouldn’t wonder if you were,” replied Parsops, 
gravely ; “ I shouldn’t wonder. However you’ll be all 
right in this case ; for the strictness and delicacy of this 
lady’s ideas greatly exceed your own. Lord bless you, 
why when she came to our house, there was an old por- 
trait of some man or other, with two large black staring 
eyes, hanging up in her bedroom ; she positively refused 
to go to bed there, till it was taken down, considering it, 
d'^cidedly wrong.” ' ^ 

“ I think so, too,” said Mr. Watkins Tottle ; “ cer- 
tainly.” 

“ And then, the other night — I never laughed so 
much in my life,” resumed Mr. Gabriel Parsons ; “ I 
had driven home in an easterly wdnd, and caught a devil 
of a face-ache. Well ; as Fanny — that’s Mrs. Parsons, 
you know — and this friend of hers, and I, and Frank 


250 


SKETCHES BY BOZ. 


Ross, were playing a rubber, I said, jokingly, that when 
I went to bed I should wrap my head in Fanny’s flannel 
petticoat. She instantly threw up her cards, and left the 
room.” 

“ Quite right ! ” said Mr. Watkins Tottle, “ she could 
not possibly Iiave behaved in a more dignified manner. 
What did you do ? ” 

“ Do ? — F rank took dummy ; and I won sixpence ? ” 

“ But, didn't you apologize for hurting her feelings ? ” 
Devil a bit. Next morning at breakfast, we talked 
it over. She contended that any reference to a flannel 
petticoat was improper ; — men ought not to be supposed 
to know that such things were. I pleaded my coverture ; 
being a married man.” 

“ And what did the lady say to that ? ” inquired 
Tottle, deeply interested. 

‘‘ Changed her ground, and said that Frank being a 
single man, its impropriety was obvious.” 

“ Noble-minded creature ! ” exclaimed the enraptured 
Tottle. 

‘‘ Oh ! both Fanny and I said, at once, that she was 
regularly cut out for you.” 

A gleam of placid satisfaction shone on the circular 
face of Mr. Watkina Tottle, as he heard the prophecy. 

“ There’s one thing I can’t understand,” said Mr. 
Gabriel Parsons, as he rose to depart ; “ I cannot, for 
the life and soul of me imagine, how the deuce you’ll 
ever contrive to come together. The lady would cer- 
tainly go into convulsions if the subject were mentioned.” 
Mr. Gabriel Parsons sat down asrain, and laughed until 
he was weak. Tottle owed him money, so he had a per- 
fect right to laugh at Tottle’s expense. 

Mr. Watkins Tottle feared, in his own mind, that this 


MR. WATiaNS TOTTLE. 


251 


was another characteristic which he had in common with 
this modern Lucretia. He, however, accepted the invi- 
tation to dine with the Pai’sonses on the next day but 
one, with great firmness; and looked forward to the 
introduction, when again left alone, with tolerable com- 
posure. 

The sun that rose on the next day but one, had never 
beheld a sprucer personage on the outside of the Nor- 
wood stage, than Mr. Watkins Tottle ; and when the 
coach drew up before a card-board looking house with 
disguised chimneys, and a lawn like a large sheet of 
green letter-paper, he certainly had never lighted to his 
place of destination a gentleman who felt more uncom- 
fortable. 

The coach stopped, and Mr. Watkins Tottle jumped — 
we beg his pardon — alighted, with great dignity. “ All 
right ! ” said he, and away went the coach up the hill 
with that beautiful equanimity of pace for which short 
stages are generally remarkable. 

Mr. Watkins Tottle gave a faltering jerk to the han- 
dle of the garden-gate bell. He essayed a more ener- 
getic tug, and his previous nervousness was not at all 
diminished by hearing the bell ringing like a fire alarum. 

“ Is Mr. Parsons at home ? ” inquired Tottle of the 
man who opened the gate. He could hardly hear him- 
self speak, for the bell had not yet done tolling. 

“ Here I am,” shouted a voice on the lawn, — and 
there was Mr. Gabriel Parsons in a flannel jacket, run- 
ning backwards and forwards, from a wicket to two hats 
piled on each other, and from the two hats to the wicket, 
in the most violent manner, while another gentleman 
with his coat off was getting down the area of the house, 
after a ball. When the gentleman without the coat had 


252 


SKETCHES BY BOZ. 


found it — which he did in less than ten minutes — he 
ran back to the hats, and Gabriel Parsons pulled up. 
Then, the gentleman without the coat called out “ play,” 
very loudly, and bowled. Then, Mr. Gabriel Parsons 
knocked the ball several yards, and took another run. 
Then, the other gentleman aimed at the wicket, and 
didn’t hit it ; and Mr. Gabriel Parsons, having finished 
running on his own account, laid down the bat and ran 
after the ball, which went into a neighboring field. They 
called this cricket. 

“ Tottle, will you ‘go in ? ’” inquired Mr. Gabriel 
Parsons, as he approached him, wiping the perspiration 
off his face. 

Mr. Watkins Tottle declined the offer, the bare idea 
of accepting which made him even w^armer than his 
friend. ^ 

“ Then we’ll go into the house,* as it’s past four, and I 
shall have to wash my hands before dinner,” said Mr. 
Gabriel Parsons. “ Here, I hate ceremony, you know ! 
Tirason, that’s Tottle — Tottle, that’s Timson ; bred for 
the church, which I fear will never be bread for him ; ” 
and he chuckled at the old joke. Mr. Timson bowed 
carelessly. Mr. Watkins Tottle bowed stifliy. Mr. 
Gabriel Parsons led the way to the house. He w^as a 
rich sugar-baker, who mistook rudeness for honesty, 
and abrupt bluntness for an open and candid man- 
ner ; many besides Gabriel mistake bluntness for sin- 
cerity. 

Mrs. Gabriel Parsons received the visitors most gra- 
ciously on the steps, and preceded them to the drawing- 
room. On the sofa was seated a lady of very prim 
appearance, and remarkably inanimate. She was one 
of those persons at whose age it is impossible to make 


MR. WATKINS TOTTLE. 


253 


any reasonable guess ; her features might have been 
remarkably pretty when she was younger, and they 
might always have presented the same appearance. 
Her complexion — with a slight trace of powder here 
and there — was as clear as tiiat of a well-made wax 
doll, and her face as expressive. She was handsomely 
dressed, and was winding up a gold watch. 

Miss Lillerton, my dear, this is our friend Mr. Wat- 
kins Tottle ; a very old acquaintance, I assure you,” 
said Mrs. Parsons, presenting the Strephon of Cecil 
Street, Strand. The lady rose, and made a deep courte- 
sy ; Mr. Watkins Tottle made a bow. 

“ Splendid, majestic creature ! ” thought Tottle. 

Mr. Timson advanced, and Mr. Watkins Tottle began 
to hate him. Men generally discover a rival, instinc- 
tively, and Mr. Watkins Tottle felt that his hate was 
deserved. 

“ May I beg,” said the reverend gentleman, — “ May 
I beg to call upon you. Miss Lillerton, for some trifling 
donation to my soup, coals, and blanket-distribution 
society ? ” 

“ Put my name down for two sovereigns, if you please,” 
responded Miss Lillerton. 

“ You are truly charitable, madam,” said the Rever- 
end Mr. Timson, “ and we know that charity will cover 
a multitude of sins. Let me beg you to understand that 
I do not say this from the supposition that you have 
many sins which require palliation ; believe me when I 
say that I never yet met any one who had fewer to 
atone for than Miss Lillerton.” 

Something like a bad imitation of animation lighted 
up the lady’s face, as she acknowledged the compliment. 
Watkins Tottle incurred the sin of wishing that the 


254 


SKETCHES BY BOZ. 


ashes of the Reverend Charles Timson were quietly 
deposited in the churchyard of his curacy, wherqver it 
might be. 

“I’ll tell you what,” interrupted Parsons, who had 
just appeared with clean hands, and a black coat, “ it’s 
my private opinion, Timson, that your ‘ distribution so- 
ciety ’ is rather a humbug.” 

“ You are so severe,” replied Timson, with a Christian 
smile ; he disliked Parsons, but liked his dinners. 

“ So positively unjust ! ” said Miss Lillerton. 

“ Certainly,” observed Tottle. The lady looked up ; 
her eyes met those of Mr. Watkins Tottle. She with- 
drew them in a sweet confusion, and Watkins Tottle did 
the same — the confusion was mutual. 

“ Why,” urged Mr. Parsons, pursuing his objections, 
“ what on earth is the use of giving a man coals who 
has nothing to cook, or giving him blankets when he 
hasn’t a bed, or giving him soup when he requires sub- 
stantial food ? — ‘ like sending them ruffles when want- 
ing a shirt.’ Why not give ’em a trifle of money, as I 
do, when I think they deserve it, and let them purchase 
what they think best ? Why ? — because your subscrib- 
ers wouldn’t see their names flourishing in print on the 
church-door — that’s the reason.” 

“ Really, Mr. Parsons, 1 hope you don’t mean to 
insinuate that I wish to see my name in print, on the 
church-door,” interrupted Miss Lillerton. 

“I hope not,” said Mr. Watkins Tottle, putting in 
another word, and getting another glance. 

“ Certainly not,” replied Parsons. “ I dare say you 
wouldn’t mind seeing it in writing, though, in the church 
register — eh ? ” 

“ Register ! What register ? ” inquired the ladji 
gravely. 


MR. WATKINS TOTTLE. 


255 


^ Whjy the register of marriages, to be sure,” replied 
Parsons, chuckling at the sally, and glancing at Tottle. 
Mr. Watkins Tottle thought he should have fainted for 
shame, and it is quite impossible to imagine what effect 
the joke would have had upon the lady, if dinner had 
not been, at that moment, announced. Mr. Watkins 
Tottle, with an unprecedented effort of gallantry, offered 
the tip of his little finger ; Miss Lillerton accepted it 
gracefully, with maiden modesty ; and they proceeded 
in due state to the dinner-table, where they were soon 
deposited side by side. The room was very snug, the 
dinner very good, and the little party in spirits. ' The 
conversation became pretty general, and when Mr. Wat- 
kins Tottle had extracted one or two cold observations 
from his neighbor, and had taken wine with her, he 
began to acquire confidence rapidly. The cloth was 
removed ; Mrs. Gabriel Parsons drank four glasses of 
port on the plea of being a nurse just then ; and Miss 
Lillerton took about the same number of sips, on the 
plea of not wanting any at all. At length the ladies 
retired, to the great gratification of Mr. Gabriel Parsons, 
who had been coughing and frowning at his wife for half 
an hour previously — signals which Mrs. Parsons never 
happened to observe, until she had been pressed to take 
her ordinary quantum, which, to avoid giving trouble, 
she generally did at once. 

“What do you think of her?” inquired Mr. Gabriel 
Parsons of Mr. Watkins Tottle, in an undertone. 

I dote on her with enthusiasm already ! ” replied 
Mr. Watkins Tottle. 

“ Gentlemen, pray let us drink ‘ the ladies,’ ” said the 
Reverend Mr. Timson. 

“ The ladies ! ” said Mr. Watkins Tottle, emptying his 


256 


SKETCHES BY BOZ. 


glass. Tn the fulness of his confidence, he felt as If Iv) 
could make love to a dozen ladies, ofi-hand. 

“ Ah ! ” said Mr. Gabriel Parsons, “ I remember when 
I was a young man — fill your glass, Timson.” 

“ I have this moment emptied it.” 

Then fill again.” 

“ I will,” said Timson, suiting the action to the word. 

“ I remember,” resumed Mr. Gabriel Parsons, “ when 
I was a younger man, with what a strange compound of 
feelings I used to drink that toast, and how I used to 
think every woman was an angel.” 

“ Was that before you were married ? ” mildly inquired 
Mr. Watkins Tottle. 

‘‘ Oh ! certainly,” replied Mr. Gabriel Parsons, ‘‘ I 
have never thought so since ; and a precious milksop I 
must have been, ever to have thought so at all. But, 
you know, I married Fanny under the oddest and most 
ridiculous circumstances possible.” 

What were they, if one may inquire ? ” asked Tim- 
son, who had heard the story, on an average, twice a 
week for the last six months. Mr. Watkins Tottle lis- 
tened attentively, in the hope of picking up some sug- 
gestion that might be useful to him in his new under- 
taking. 

I spent my wedding-night in a back-kitchen chim- 
ney,” said Parsons, by way of a beginning. 

‘‘ In a back-kitchen chimney ! ” ejaculated Watkins 
Tottle. “How dreadful!” 

“Yes, it wasn’t very plea- ant,” replied the small host. 
“ The fact is, Fanny’s father and mother liked me well 
enough as an individual, but had a decided objection to 
my becoming a husband. You see, I hadn’t any money 
in those days, and they had ; and so they wanted Fanny 


MR. WATKINS TOTTLE. 


257 


to pick up somebody else. However, we managed to 
discover the state of each other’s affections somehow. I 
used to meet her, at some mutual friends’ parties ; at first 
we danced together, and talked, and flirted, and all that 
sort of thing ; then, I used to like nothing so well as sit- 
ting by her side — we didn't talk so much then, but I 
remember I used to have a great notion of looking at 
her out of the extreme corner of my left eye — and then 
I got very miserable and sentimental, and began to write 
verses, and use Macassar oil. At last I couldn’t bear it 
any longer, and after I had walked up and down the 
sunny side of Oxford Street in tight boots for a week — 
and a devilish hot summer it was too — in the hope of 
meeting her, I sat down and wrote a letter, and begged 
her to manage to see me clandestinely, for I wanted to 
hear her decision from her own mouth. I said I had dis- 
covered, to my perfect satisfaction, that I couldn’t live 
without her, and that if she didn’t have me, I had made 
up my mind to take prussic acid, or take to drinking, or 
emigrate, so as to take myself off in some way or other. 
Well, I borrowed a pound, and bribed the housemaid to 
give her the note, which she did.” 

And what was the reply ? ” inquired Timson, who 
had found, before, that to encourage the repetition of old 
stories is to get a general invitation. 

“ Oh, the usual one ! Fanny expressed herself very 
miserable ; hinted at the possibility of an early grave ; 
said that nothing should induce her to swerve from the 
duty she owed her parents ; implored me to forget her, 
and find out somebody more deserving, and all that sort 
of thing. She said she could, on no account, think of 
meeting me unknown to her pa and ma ; and entreated 
me, as she should be in a particular part of Kensington 
17 


VOL. II. 


258 


SKETCHES BY BOZ. 


Gardens at eleven o’clock next morning, not to attempt 
to meet her there.” 

“ You didn’t go, of course ? ” said Watkins Tottle. 

“ Didn’t I ? — Of course I did. There she was, with 
the identical housemaid in perspective, in order that there 
might be no interruption. We walked about, for a 
couple of hours ; made ourselves delightfully miserable ; 
and were regularly engaged. Then, we began to ‘ cor- 
respond’ — that is to say, we used to exchange about 
four letters a day ; what we used to say in ’em I can’t 
imagine. And I used to have an interview, in the 
kitchen, or the cellar, or some such place, every evening. 
Well, things went on in this w^ay for some time ; and we 
got fonder of each other every day. At last, as our love 
was raised to such a pitch, and as my salary had been 
raised too, shortly before, we determined on a secret mar- 
riage. Fanny arranged to sleep at a friend’s on the pre- 
vious night ; we were to be married early in the morn- 
ing ; and then we were to return to her home and be 
pathetic. She was to fall at the old gentleman’s feet, 
and bathe his boots with her tears ; and I was to hug 
the old lady and call her ‘ mother,’ and use my pocket- 
handkerchief as much as possible. Married we were, 
the next morning ; two girls — friends of Fanny’s — 
acting as bridesmaids ; and a man, who was hired for 
five shillings and a pint of porter, ofiiciating as father. 
Now", the old lady unfortunately put off her return from 
Ramsgate, where she had been paying a visit, until the 
next morning : and as we placed great reliance on her, 
we agreed to postpone our confession for four-and-twenty 
hours. My newly made wife returned home, and I spent 
my wedding-day in strolling about Hampstead Heath, 
and execrating my father-in-law. Of course, I went to 


MR. WATKINS TOTTLE. 


259 


comfort my dear little wife at night, as much as I could, 
with the assurance that our troubles would soon be over. 
I opened the garden-gate, of which I had a key, and was 
shown by the servant to our old place of meeting — a 
back-kitchen, with a stone floor and a dresser ; upon 
Ayhich, in the absence of chairs, we used to sit and make 
love.” 

“ Make love upon a kitchen-dresser ? ” interrupted Mr. 
Watkins Tottle, whose ideas of decorum were greatly 
outraged. 

“ Ah ! On a kitchen-dresser ! ” replied Parsons. 
“And let me tell you, old fellow^, that, if you were 
really over head-and-ears in love, and had no other place 
to make love in, you’d be devilish glad to avail yourself 
of such an opportunity. However, let me see ; — where 
was I ? ” 

“ On the dresser,” suggested Tirason. 

“ Oh — ah ! Well, here I found poor Fanny, quite 
disconsolate and uncomfortable. The old boy had been 
very cross all day, which made her feel still more lonely ; 
and she was quite out of spirits. So, I put a good face 
on the matter, and laughed it off, and said we should 
enjoy the pleasures of a matrimonial life more, by con- 
trast; and, at length, poor Fanny brightened up a little. 
I stopped there, till about eleven o’clock, and, just as I 
was taking my leave for the fourteenth time, the girl 
came running down the stairs, without her shoes, in a 
great fright, to tell us that the old villain — Heaven for- 
give me for calling him so, for he is dead and gone now ! 
— prompted I suppose by the prince of darkness, w^as 
coming down to draw his own beer for supper — a thing 
he had not done before, for six months, to my certain 
knowledge ; for the cask stood in that very back-k' tchen. 


2G0 


SKETCHES BY BOZ. 


If he discovered me there, explanation would have been 
out of the question ; for he was so outrageously violent, 
when at all excited, that he never would have listened to 
me. There was only one thing to be done. The chim- 
ney was a very wide one ; it had been originally built 
for an oven ; went up perpendicularly for a few feet, and 
then shot backward and formed a sort of small cavern. 
My hopes and fortune — the means of our joint existence 
almost — were at stake. I scrambled in, like a squirrel ; 
coiled myself up in this recess; and, as Fanny and the 
girl replaced the deal chimney board, I could see the 
light of the candle which my unconscious father-in-law 
carried in his hand. I heard him draw the beer ; and I 
never heard beer run so slowly. He was just leaving 
the kitchen, and I was preparing to descend, when down 
came the infernal chimney board with a tremendous 
crash. He stopped, and put down the candle and the 
jug of beer on the dresser ; he was a nervous old fellow, 
and any unexpected noise annoyed him. He coolly ob- 
served that the fireplace was never used, and sending the 
frightened servant into the next kitchen for a hammer 
and nails, actually nailed up the board, and locked the 
door on the outside. So, there was I, on my wedding- 
night, in the light kerseymere trousers, fancy waistcoat, 
and blue coat, that I had been married in in the morn- 
ing, in a back-kitcheii chimney, the bottom of which was 
nailed up, and the top of which had been formerly raised 
some fifteen feet, to prevent the smoke from annoying 
the neighbors. And there, ’ added Mr. Gabriel Parsons, 
as he passed the bottle, there I remained till half-past 
seven the next morning, when the housemaid’s sweet- 
heart, who was a carpenter, unshelled me. The old dog 
had nailed me up so securely, that, to this very hour, I 


MR. WATKINS TOTTLE. 


261 


firmly believe that no one but a carpenter could ever 
have got me out.” 

‘‘ And what did Mrs. Parsons’s father say, when he 
found you were married?” inquired Watkins Tottle, 
who, although he never saw a joke, was not satisfied 
until he heard a story to the very end. 

“ Why, the affair of the chimney so tickled his fancy, 
that he pardoned us off-hand, and allowed us something 
to live on till he went the way of all flesh. I spent the 
next night in his second-floor front, much more comfort- 
ably than I had spent the preceding one ; for, as you will 
probably guess — ” 

“ Please sir, missis has made tea,” said a middle-aged 
female servant, bobbing into the room. 

“ That’s the very housemaid that figures in my story,” 
said Mr. Gabriel Parsons. “ She went into Fanny’s 
service when we were first married, and has been with us 
ever since ; but I don't think she has felt one atom of 
respect for me since the morning she saw me released, 
when she went into violent hysterics, to which she has 
been subject ever since. Now, shall we join the 
ladies ? ” • 

“ If you please,” said Mr. Watkins Tottle. 

“ By all means,” added the obsequious Mr. Timson ; 
and the trio made for the di'awing-room accordingly. 

Tea being concluded, and the toast and cups having 
been duly handed, and occasionally upset, by Mr. Wat- 
kins. Tottle, a rubber was proposed. They cut for part- 
ners — Mr. and Mrs. Parsons ; and Mr. Watkins Tottle 
and Miss Lillerton. Mr. Timson having conscientious 
scruples on the subject of card-playing, drank brandy- 
and-water, and kept up a running spar with Mr. Watkins 
Tottle. The evening w^ent oflf well ; Mr. Watkins Tottle 


262 


SKETCHES BY BOZ. 


was in high spirits, having some reason to be gratified 
with his reception by Miss Lillerton ; and before he left, 
a small party was made up to visit the Beulah Spa on 
the following Saturday. 

“ It’s all right, I think,” said Mr. Gabriel Parsons 
to Mr. Watkins Tottle, as he opened the garden gate for 
him. 

I hope so,” he replied, squeezing his friend’s hand. 

You’ll be down by the first coach on Saturday,” said 
Mr. Gabriel Parsons. 

“ Certainly,” replied Mr. Watkins Tottle. “ Undoubt- 
edly.” 

But fortune had decreed that Mr. Watkins Tottle 
should not be down by the first coach on Saturday. 
His adventures on that day, however, and the success 
of his wooing, are subjects for another chapter. 


CHAPTER THE SECOND. 

“ The first coach has not come in yet, has it, Tom ? ” 
inquired Mr. Gabriel Parsons, as he very complacently 
paced up and down the fourteen feet of gravel which 
bordered the “lawn,” on the Saturday morning which 
had been fixed upon for the Beulah Spa jaunt. 

“ No, sir ; I haven’t seen it,” replied a gardener in a 
blue apron, who let himself out to do the ornamental for 
half a crown a day and his “ keep.” 

“ Time Tottle was down,” said Mr. Gabriel Parsons, 
ruminating — “Oh, here he is, no doubt,” added Gabriel, 
as a cab drove rapidly up the hill ; and he buttoned his 


MR. WATKINS TOTTLE. 


263 


dressing-gown, and opened the gate to receive the ex 
pected visitor. The cab stopped, and out jumped a man 
in a coarse Petersham great-coat, whity-brown necker- 
chief, faded black suit, gamboge-colored top-boots, and 
one of those large - crowned hats formerly seldom met 
with, but now very generally patronized by gentlemen 
and costermongers. 

“ Mr. Parsons ? ” said the man, looking at the super- 
scription of a note he held in his hand, and addressing 
Gabriel with an inquiring air. 

“ My name is Parsons,” responded the sugar-baker. 

“ I’ve brought this here note,” replied the individual 
in the painted tops, in a hoarse whisper ; “ I’ve brought 
this here note from a gen’lm’n as come to our house this 
mornin’.” 

“ I expected the gentleman at my house,” said Par- 
sons, as he broke the seal, which bore the impres- 
sion of her majesty’s profile as it is seen on a six- 
pence. 

I’ve no doubt the gen’lm’n would ha’ been here,” 
replied the stranger, “ if he hadn’t happened to call at 
our house first ; but we never trusts no gen’lm’n furder 
nor we can see him — no mistake about that there ” — 
added the unknown, with a facetious grin ; “ beg yer 
pardon, sir, no offence meant, only — once in, and I 
wish you may — catch the idea, sir ? ” 

Mr. Gabriel Parsons was not remarkable for catching 
anything suddenly, but a cold. He therefore only be- 
stowed a glance of profound astonishment on his myste- 
rious companion, and proceeded to unfold the note of 
which he had been the bearer. Once opened, and the 
idea was caught with very little difficulty. Mr. Watkins 
Tottle had been suddenly arrested for 33Z. IO 5 . and 


261 


SKETCHES BY BOZ. 


dated his communication from a lock - up house in the 
vicinity of Chancery Lane. 

‘‘ Unfortunate affair, this ! ” said Parsons, refolding the 
note. 

“ Oh ! nothin’ ven you’re used to it,” coolly observed 
the man in the Petersham. 

Tom ! ” exclaimed Parsons, after a few minutes’ 
consideration, “just put the horse in, will you? — Tell 
the gentleman that I shall be there almost as soon as 
you are,” he continued, addressing the sheriff - officer’s 
Mercury. 

“ Werry w^ell,” replied that important functionary ; 
adding, in a confidential manner, “ Pd adwise the gen- 
’Im’n’s friends to settle. You see it’s a mere trifle ; and, 
unless the gen’lm’n means to go up afore the court, it’s 
hardly worth while waiting for detainers, you know. 
Our governor’s wide awake, lib is. Ill never say nothin’ 
agin him, nor no man ; but he knows what’s o'clock, he 
does, uncommon.” Having delivered this eloquent, and, 
to Parsons, particularly •intelligible harangue, the mean- 
ing of which was eked out by divers nods and winks, 
the gentleman in the boots reseated himself in the cab, 
which went rapidly off and was soon out of sight. Mr. 
Gabriel Parsons continued to pace up and down the 
pathway for some minutes, apparently absorbed in deep 
meditation. The result of his cogitations seemed to be 
perfectly satisfactory to himself, for he ran briskly into 
the house ; said that business had suddenly summoned 
him to town ; that he had desired the messenger to in- 
form Mr. Watkins Tottle of the fact ; and that they 
would return together to dinner. He then hastily 
equipped himself for a drive, and mounting his gig, was 
Boon on his way to the establishment of Mr. Solomon 


MR. WATKINS TOTTLE. 


265 


Jacobs, situate (as Mr. Watkins Tottle had informed 
him) in Cursitor Street, Chancery Lane.. 

When a man is in a violent hurry to get on, and has 
a specific object in view, the attainment of which de- 
pends on the completion of his journey, the difficulties 
which interpose themselves in his way appear not only 
to be innumerable, but to have been called into existence 
especially for the occasion. The remark is by no means 
a new one, and Mr. Gabriel Parsons had practical and 
painful experience of its justice in the course of his 
drive. There are three classes of animated objects 
which prevent your driving with any degree of comfort 
or celerity through streets which are but little frequented 
— they are pigs, children, and old women. On the 
occasion we are describing, the pigs were luxuriating on 
cabbage-stalks ; and the shuttlecocks fluttered from the 
little deal battledoors, and the children played in the 
road ; and women, with a basket in one hand and the 
street-door key in the other, would cross just before the 
horse’s head, until Mr. Gabriel Parsons was perfectly 
savage with vexation, and quite hoarse with hoi-ing and 
imprecating. Then, when he got into Fleet Street, 
there was “ a stoppage,” in which people in vehicles • 
have the satisfaction of remaining stationary for half 
an hour, and envying the slowest pedestrians ; and where 
policemen rush about, and seize hold of horses’ bridles, 
and back them into shop-windows, by way of clearing 
the road and preventing confusion. At length Mr. 
Gabriel Parsons turned into Chancery Lane, and hav- 
ing inquired for, and been directed to Cursitor Street 
(for it was a locality of which he was quite ignorant), 
he soon found himself opposite the house of Mr. Solo- 
mon Jacobs. Confiding his horse and gig to the care 


•266 


SKETCHES BY BOZ. 


uf one of the fourteen boys who had followed him from 
the otlier side of Blackfriars Bridge on the chance o^ 
his requiring their services, Mr. Gabriel Parsons crossed 
the road and knocked at an inner door, the upper part 
of which was of glass, grated like the windows of this 
inviting mansion with iron bars — painted white to look 
comfortable. 

The knock was answered by a sallow-faced red-haired 
sulky boy, who, after surveying Mr. Gabriel Parsons 
thi’ough the glass, applied a large key to an immense 
wooden excrescence, which was in reality a lock, but 
which, taken in conjunction with the iron nails with 
w^hich the panels wefe studded, gave the door the ap- 
pearance of being subject to warts. 

I w'ant to see Mr. Watkins Tottle,” said Parsons. 

It’s the gentleman that come in this morning, Jem,” 
screamed a voice from the top of the kitchen stairs, 
wdiich belonged to a dirty woman, who had just brought 
her chin to a level with the passage-floor. “ The gen- 
tleman’s in the coffee-room.” 

“ Up-stairs, sir,” said the boy, just opening the door 
wide enough to let Parsons in without squeezing him, 
and double-locking it the moment he had made his way 
through the aperture — “ First floor — door on the 
left.” 

Mr. Gabriel Parsons, thus instructed, ascended the 
uncarpeted and ill-lighted staircase, and after giving 
several subdued taps at the before-mentioned ‘‘ door on 
the left,” which were rendered inaudible by the hum of 
voices within the room, and the hissing noise attendant 
on some frying operations which were carrying on below 
stairs, turned the handle, and entered the apartment. 
Being informed that the unfortunate object of his visit 


MR. WATKINS TOTTLE. 


267 


had just gone up-stairs to write a letter, he had leisure 
to sit down and observe the scene before him. 

The room — which was a small, confined den — was 
partitioned off into boxes, like the common room of some 
inferior eating-house. The dirty floor had evidently 
been as long a stranger to the scrubbing-brush as to 
carpet or floor-cloth ; and the ceiling was completely 
blackened by the flare of the oil-lamp by which the 
room was lighted at night. The gray ashes on the 
edges of the tables, and the cigar ends which were plen- 
tifully scattered about the dusty grate, fully accounted 
for the intolerable smell of tobacco which pervaded the 
place ; and the empty glasses and half-saturated slices 
of lemon on the tables, together with the porter-pots 
beneath them, bore testimony to the frequent libations 
in which the individuals who honored Mr. Solomon 
Jacobs by a temporary residence in his house indulged. 
Over the mantel-shelf was a paltry looking-glass, extend- 
ing about half the width of the chimney piece ; but by 
way of counterpoise the ashes were confined by a rusty 
fender about twice as long as the hearth. 

From this cheerful room itself, the attention of Mr. 
Gabriel Parsons was naturally directed to its inmates. 
In one of the boxes two men were playing at cribbage 
with a very dirty pack of cards, some with blue, some 
with green, and some with red backs — selections from 
decayed packs. The cribbage board had been long ago 
formed on the table by some ingenious visitor with the 
assistance of a pocket-knife and a two-pronged fork, with 
which the necessary number of holes had been made in 
the table at proper distances for the reception of the 
wooden pegs. In another box a stout, hearty looking 
man, of about forty, was eating some dinner which his 


268 


SKETCHES BY BOZ. 


wife — an equally comfortable-looking personage — had 
brought him in a basket ! and in a third, a genteel-look- 
ing young man was talking earnestly, and in a low tone, 
to a young female, whose face was concealed by a thick 
veil, but whom Mr. Gabriel Parsons immediately set 
down in his o^vn mind as the debtor’s wife. A young ♦ 
fellow of vulgar manners, dressed in the very extreme 
of the prevailing fashion, was pacing up and down the 
room, with a lighted cigar in his mouth, and his hands 
in his pockets, ever and anon puffing forth volumes of 
smoke, and occasionally applying, with much apparent 
relish, to a pint pot, th.e contents of wffiich w'ere “ chill- 
ing ” on the hob. 

“ Fourpence more, by gum ! ” exclaimed one of the 
cribbage-players, lighting a pipe, and addressing his 
adversary at the close of the game ; “ one ’ud think 
you’d got luck in a pepper-cruet, and shook it out wffien 
you wanted it.” 

Well, that a’n’t a bad un,” replied the other, who 
was a horse-dealer from Islington. 

‘‘ No ; I’m blessed if it is,” interposed the jolly looking 
fellow, who, having finished his dinner, wms drinking out 
of the same glass as his wife, in truly conjugal harmony, 
some hot gin-and-water. The faithful partner of his 
cares had brought a plentiful supply of the anti-temper- 
ance fiuid in a large flat stone bottle, which looked like a 
half-gallon jar that had been successfully tapped for the 
dropsy. “ You’re a rum chap, you are, Mr. Walker — 
will you dip your beak into this, sir ? ” 

“ Thank’ee, sir,” replied Mr. Walker, leaving his box, 
and advancing to the other to accept the proffered glass. 

“ Here’s your health, sir, and your good ’ooman’s here. 
Gentlemen all — yours, and better luck still. Well, Mr. 


MR. WATKINS TOTTLE. 


269 


Willis,” continued the facetious prisoner, addressing the 
young man with the cigar, “you seem rather down to- 
day — floored, as one may say. What’s the matter, sir ? 
Never say die you know.” 

“ Oh ! I’m all right,” replied the smoker. “ I shall be 
bailed out to-morrow.” 

“ Shall you, though ? ” inquired the other. “ Damme, 
I wish I could say the same. I am as regularly over 
head and ears as the Koyal George, and stand about as 
much chance of being hailed out Ha ! ha ! ha ! ” 

“ Why,” said the young man, stopping short, and 
speaking in a very loud key, “ look at me. What d’ye 
think I’ve stopped here two days for ? ” 

“’Cause you couldn’t get out, I suppose,” interrupted 
Mr. Walker, winking to the company. “ Not that 
you’re exactly obliged to stop here, only you can’t 
help it. No compulsion, you know, only you must 
— eh ? ” 

“ A’n’t he a rum un,” inquired the delighted individ- 
ual, who had offered the gin-and-water, of his wife. 

“ Oh, he just is ! ” replied the lady, who was quite 
overcome by these flashes of imagination. 

“ Why, my case,” frowned the victim, throwing the 
end of his cigar into the fire, and illustrating his argu- 
ment by knocking the bottom of the pot on the table, at 
intervals, — “ my case is a very singular one. My fa- 
ther s a man of large property, and I am his son.” 

“ That’s a very strange circumstance ! ” interrupted 
the jocoSe Mr. Walker, en 'passant. 

“ — I am his son, and have received a liberal educa- 
tion. I don’t owe no man nothing — not the value of a 
farthing, but I was induced, you see, to put my name to 
Bome bills for a friend — bills to a large amount, I may 


270 


SKETCHES BY BOZ. 


Bay a very large amount, for which I didn’t receive no 
consideration. What’s the consequence ? ” 

“ Why, I suppose the bills went out, and you came in. 
The acceptances weren’t taken up, and you were, eh ? ” 
inquired Walker. 

“ To be sure,” replied the liberally educated young 
gentleman. “ To be sure ; and so here I am, locked up 
for a matter of twelve hundred pound.” 

“ Why don’t you ask your old governor to stump up ? ” 
inquired Walker, with a somewhat sceptical air. 

“ Oh ! bless you, he’d never do it,” replied the other, 
in a tone of expostulation — “ Never ! ” 

“ Well, it is very odd to — be — sure,” interposed the 
owner of the dat bottle, mixing another glass, ‘‘ but I’ve 
been in difficulties, as one may say, now for thirty year. 
I went to pieces wdien I was in a milk-walk, thirty year 
ago ; arterwards, when I was a fruiterer, and kept a 
spring wan ; and arter that again in the coal and ’tatur 
line — but all that time I never see a youngish chap 
come into a place of this kind, who wasn’t going out 
again directly, and who hadn’t been arrested on bills 
which he’d given a friend and for which he’d received 
nothing whatsomever — not a fraction.” 

Oh ! it’s always the cry,” said Walker. “ I can’t see 
the use on it ; that’s what makes me so wild. Why, I 
should have a much better opinion of an individual, if 
he’d say at once in an honorable and gentlemanly man- 
ner as he’d done everybody he possibly could.” 

“ Ay, to be sure,” interposed the horse-dealer, with 
whose notions of bargain and sale the axiom perfectly 
coincided, ‘‘ so should I.” 

The young gentleman, who had given rise to these ob- 
servations, was on the point of offering a rather angry 


MR. WATKINS TOTTLE. 


271 


reply to these sneers, but the rising of the young man 
before noticed, and of the female who had been sitting 
by him, to leave the room, interrupted the conversation. 
She had been weeping bitterly, and the noxious atmos- 
phere of the room acting upon her excited feelings and 
delicate frame, rendered the support of her companion 
necessary as they quitted it together. 

There was an air of superiority about them both, and 
something in their appearance so unusual in such a place, 
that a respectful silence was observed until the whirr — 
r — hang of the spring door announced that they were 
out of hearing. It was broken by the wife of the ex- 
fruiterer. 

Poor creetur ! ” said she, quenching a sigh in a rivu- 
let of gin-and-water. “ She’s very young.” 

“ She’s a nice-looking ’ooman too,” added the horse- 
dealer. 

‘‘What’s he in for, Ikey?” inquired Walker, of an 
individual who was spreading a cloth with numerous 
blotches of mustard upon it, on one of the tables, and 
whom Mr. Gabriel Parsons had no difficulty in recog- 
nizing as the man who had called upon him in the morn- 
ing. 

“ Yy,” responded the factotum, “ it’s one of the rum- 
miest rigs you ever heard on. He come in here last 
Vensday, which by the by he’s agoing over the water 
to-niofht — hows’ever that’s neither here nor there. You 
see I’ve been agoing back’ards and for’ards about his 
business, and ha’ managed to pick up some of his story 
from the servants and them ; and so far as I can make it 
out, it seems to be summat to this here effect — ” 

“ Cut it short, old fellow,” interrupted Walker, 
who knew from former experience that he of the top- 


2/2 


SKETCHES BY BOZ. 


boots was neither very concise nor intelligible in liia 
narratives. 

‘‘ Let me alone,” replied I key, ‘‘and 111 ha’ vound up, 
and made my lucky in five seconds. This here young 
gen’lm’n’s father so I’m told, mind ye — and the father 
o’ the young voman, have always been on very bad, 
out-and-out, rig’lar knock-me-down sort o’ terms ; but 
somehow or another, when he was a-wisitin’ at some 
gentlefolk’s house, as he knowed at college, he came into 
contract with the young lady. He seed her several times, 
and then he up and said he’d keep company with her, if so 
be as she vos agreeable. Veil, she vos as sweet upon 
him as he vos upon her, and so I s’pose they made it all 
right ; for they got married ’bout six months arterwards, 
unbeknown, mind ye, to the two fathers — leastways so 
I’m told. AYhen they heard on it — my eyes, there was 
such a combustion ! Starvation vos the very least that 
vos to be done to ’em. The young gen’lm’n’s father cut 
him ofiT vith a bob, ’cos he’d cut himself off vith a wife ; 
and the young lady's father he behaved even worser and 
more unnat’ral, for he not only blow’d her up dreadful, 
and swore he’d never see her again, but he employed a 
chap as I knows — and as you knows, Mr. Valker, a 
precious sight too well — to go about and buy up the 
bills and them things on which the young husband, 
thinking his governor ’ud come round agin, had raised 
the vind just to blow hijnself on vith tor a time ; besides 
vich, he made all the interest he could to set other people 
agin him. Consequence vos, that he paid as long as he 
could ; but things he never expected to have to meet till 
he’d had time to turn himself round, come fast upon him, 
and he vos nabbed. He vos brought here, as I said 
afore, last Vensday, and I think there’s about — ah, 


MR. WATKINS TOTTLE. 


273 


half a dozen detainers agin him down-stairs now. I 
have been,” added I key, “ in the purfession these fifteen 
year, and I never met with such windictiveness afore ! ” 
Poor creeturs ! ” exckimed the coal-dealer’s wife once 
more : again I’e^orting to the same excellent prescrip- 
tion for nipping a sigh in the bud : ‘‘ Ah ! when they’ve 
seen as much trouble as I and my old man here have, 
they'll be as comfortable under it as we are.” 

“ The young lady’s a pretty creature,” said Walker, 
only she’s a little too delicate for my taste — there a’n’t 
enough of her. As to the young cove, he may be very 
respectable and what not, but he’s too down in the mouth 
for me — he a’n’t game.” 

Game ! ” exclaimed Ikey, who had been altering the 
position of a green-handled knife and foik at least a 
dozen times, in order that he might remain in the room 
under the pretext of having something to do. “ He’s 
game enough ven there’s anything to be fierce about ; 
but who could be game as you call it, Mr. Walker, with 
a pale young creetur like that, hanging about him ? — 
It’s enougli to drive any man’s heart into his boots to see 
’em together — and no mistake at all about it. I never 
shall forget her first cornin’ here ; he wrote to her on the 
Thursday to come — I know he did, ’cos I took the 
letter. Uncommon fidgety he was all day to be sure, 
and in the evening he goes down into the office, and he 
says to Jacobs, says he, ‘ Sir, can I have the loan of a 
private room for a few minutes this evening, without in- 
curring any additional expense — just to see my wife 
in ? ’ says he. Jticobs looked as mucli as to say — ‘ Strike 
me bountiful if you a’n’t one of the modest sort ! ’ but as 
the gen’lm’n who had been in the back parlor had just 
gone out, and had paid for it for that day, he says — 

VOL. II. 18 


274 


SKETCHES BY BOZ. 


werrj grave — ‘ Sir/ says he, it’s agin our rules to let 
private rooms to our lodgers on gratis terms, but,’ says 
he, ‘for a gentleman, I don’t mind breaking through 
them for once/ So then he turns round to me, and says, 
‘ They, put two mould candles in the back-parlor, and 
charge ’em to this gen’lm’n’s account,’ vich I did. Yell, 
by and by a hackney-coach comes up to the door, and 
there, sure enough, was the young lady, wrapped up in 
a hopera-cloak, as it might be, and all alone. I opened 
^the gate that night, so I went Jjp when the coach come, 
and he vos a-waitin’ at the parioT-door — and w^asn’t he 
a-trembling, neither? The poor creetur see him, and 
could hardly walk to meet him. ‘’■Oh, Harry!’ she 
says, ‘ that it should have come to this ; and all for my 
sake,’ says she, putting her hand upon his shoulder. So 
he puts his arm round her pretty little wiaist, and leading 
her gently a little way into the room, so tliLit he might be 
able to shut the door, he says so kind ancj soft-like — 
‘ Why, Kate,’ says he — ” 

“ Here’s the gentleman you want,” said Ikey, abruptly 
breaking off in his story, and introducing Mr. Gabriel 
Parsons to the crest-fallen Watkins Tottle, who at that 
moment entered the room. Watkins advanced witJi a 
wooden expression of passive endurance, and accepted 
the hand which Mr. Gabriel Parsons held out. 

“ I want to speak to you,” said Gabriel, with a look 
«.trongly expressive of his dislike of the company. 

“ This way,” replied the imprisoned one, leading" the 
to the front drawing-room, where rich debtors did 
'xurious at the rate of a couple of guineas a day. 

^ here I am,” said Watkins, as he s^at down on 

ofa ’ placing the palms of his hands on his 
iously glanced at his friend’s countenance. 

necB, 


MR. WATKINS TOTTLE. 


275 


Yes ; and here you’re likely to be,” said Gabriel^ 
coolly, as he rattled the money in his unmentionable 
pockets, and looked out of the window. 

What’s the amount with the costs ? ” inquired Par- 
sons, after an awkward pause. 

37/. 3s. lOd.” 

“ Have you any money ? ’’ 

“ Nine and sixpence halfpenny.” 

Mr. Gabriel Parsons walked up and down the room 
for a few seconds, before he could make up his mind to 
disclose the plan he had formed ; he was accustomed to 
drive hard bargains, but was always most anxious to con- 
ceal his avarice. At length he stopped short, and said, 
Tottle, you owe me fifty pounds.” 

I do.” 

‘‘ And from all I see, I infer that you are likely to owe 
it to me.” 

“ I fear I am.” 

‘‘ Though you have every disposition to pay me if you 
could?” 

‘‘ Certainly.” 

“ Then,” said Mr. Gabriel Parsons, “ listen ; here’s my 
proposition. You know my way of old. Accept it — 
yes or no — I will or I won’t. I’ll pay the debt and 
costs, and I’ll lend you 10/. mor.e (which, added to your 
annuity, will enable you to carry on the war well) if 
you’ll give me your note of hand to pay me one hundred 
and fifty pounds within six months after you are married 
to Miss Lillerton.” 

“ My dear — ” 

“ Stop a minute — on one condition ; and that is, that 
you propose to Miss Lillerton at once.” 

“ At once ! My dear Parsons, consider.” 


276 


SKETCHES BY BOZ. 


“ It’s for you to consider, not me. She knows you 
well from reputation, though she did not know you per- 
sonally until lately. Notwithstanding all her maiden 
modesty, I think she’d be devilish glad to get married 
out of hand, with as little delay as possible. My 
wife has sounded her on the subject, and she has con- 
fessed.” 

“ What — what ? ” eagerly interrupted the enamored 
Watkins. 

“ Why,” replied Parsons, to say exactly what sh& 
has confessed, would be rather difficult, because they only 
spoke in hints, and so forth ; but my wife, who is no bad 
judge in these cases, declared to me that what she had 
confessed w^as as good as to say that she was not insen- 
sible of your merits — in fact, that no other man should 
have her.” 

Mr. Watkins Tottle rose hastily from his seat, and 
rang the bell. 

“ What’s that for ? ” inquired Parsons. 

“ I want to send the man for the bill stamp,” replied 
Mr. Watkins Tottle. 

“ Then you’ve made up your mind ? ” 

I have,” — and they shook hands most cordially. 
The note of hand was given — the debt and costs were 
paid — Ikey was satisfied for his trouble, and the two 
friends soon found themselves on that side of Mr. Solo- 
mon Jacobs’s establishment on which most of his visitors 
were very happy when they found themselves once again 
— t© wit, the ow/side. 

“ Now,” said Mr. Gabriel Parsons, as they drove to 
Norwood together — “ you shall have an opportunity to 
make the disclosure to-night, and mind you speak out, 
Tottle.” 


MR. WATKIXS TOTTLE. 


277 


^ I will — I will ! ” replied Watkins, valorously. 

“ How I should like to see you together,” ejaculated 
Mr. Gabriel Parsons. — “ What fun ! ” and he laughed 
so long and so loudly, that he disconcerted Mr. Watkins 
Tottle, and frightened the horse. 

“ There’s Fanny and your intended walking about on 
the lawn,” said Gabriel, as they approached the house 
— “ Mind your eye, Tottle.” 

“ Never fear,” replied Watkins, resolutely, as he made 
his way to the spot where the ladies were walking. 

“ Here’s Mr. Tottle, my dear,” said Mrs. Parsons, 
addressing Miss Lillerton. The lady turned quickly 
round, and acknowledged his courteous salute with the 
same sort of confusion that Watkins had noticed on their 
first interview, but with something like a slight expres- 
sion of disappointment or carelessness. 

“ Did you see how glad she was to see you ? ” whis- 
pered Parsons to his friend. 

Why I really thought she looked as if She would 
rather have sejBn somebody else,” replied Tottle. 

Pooh, nonsense ! ” whispered Parsons again — “ it’s 
always the way with the women, young or old. They 
never show how delighted they are to see those whose 
presence makes their hearts beat. It’s the way with the 
whole sex, and no man should have lived to your time 
of life without knowing it. Fanny confessed it to me, 
when we were first married, over and over again — see 
what it is to have a wife.” 

Certainly,” whispered Tottle, whose courage was 
vanishing fast. 

“ Well, now, you’d better begin to pave the way,” said 
Parsons, who, having invested some money in the specu- 
lation, assumed the office of director. 


278 


SKETCHES BY BOZ. 


“ Yes, yes, I will — presently,” replied Tottle, greatly 
flurried. 

Say something to her, man,” urged Parsons again. 

Confound it ! pay her a compliment, can’t you ? ” 

“ No ! not till after dinner,” replied the bashful Tottle, 
anxious to postpone the evil moment. 

Well, gentlemen,” said Mrs. Parsons, you are really 
very polite ; you stay away the whole morning, after 
promising to take us out, and when you do come home, 
you stand whispermg together and take no notice of 
us.” 

“ We were talking of the business, my dear, which 
detained us this morning,” replied Parsons, looking 
significantly at Tottle. 

Dear me ! how very quickly the morning has gone,” . 
said Miss Lillerton, referring to the gold watch, which 
was wound up on state occasions, whether it required it 
or not. 

“ I think it has passed very slowly,” mildly suggested 
Tottle. 

(“ That’s right — bravo ! ”) whispered Parsons. 

‘‘ Indeed ! ” said Miss Lillerton, with an air of majestic 
surprise. 

I can only impute it to my unavoidable absence from 
your society, madam,” said Watkins, “ and that of Mrs. 
Parsons.” 

During this short dialogue, the ladies had been lead- 
ing the way to the house. 

“ What the deuce did you stick Fanny into that last 
compliment for ? ” inquired Parsons, as they followed to- 
gether ; it quite spoilt the effect.” 

Oh ! it really would have been too broad without,” 
replied Watkins Tottle, ^‘much too broad ! ” 


MR. WATKINS TOTTLE. 


279 


He’s mad ! ” Parsons whispered his wife, as the^ 
entered the drawing-room, “ mad from modesty.” 

Dear me ! ” ejaculated the lady, “ I never heard of 
such a thing.” 

“ You’ll find we have quite a family dinner. Mi’. 
Tottle,” said Mrs. Parsons, when they sat down to table ; 
“ Miss Lillerton is one of us, and of course we make no 
stranger of you.” 

Mr. Watkins Tottle expressed a hope that the Parsons 
family never would make a stranger of him ; and wished 
internally that his bashfulness would allow him to feel a 
little less like a stranger himself. 

“ Take off* the covers, Martha,” said Mrs. Parsons, 
directing the shifting of .the scenery with great anxiety. 
The order was obeyed, and a pair of boiled fowls, with 
tongue and et ceteras, were displayed at the top, and a 
fillet of veal at the bottom. On one side of the table 
two green sauce-tureens, with ladles of the same, were 
setting to each other in a green dish ; and on the other 
was a curried rabbit, in a brown suit, turned up with 
lemon. 

“ Miss Lillerton, my dear,” said Mrs. Parsons, “ shall 
I assist you ? ” 

“ Thank you, no ; I think I’ll trouble Mr. Tottle.” 

Watkins started — trembled — helped the rabbit-— 
and broke a tumbler. The countenance of the lad^ /.* 
tlie house, which had been all smiles previously, tL v- 
went an awful change. 

“ Extremely sorry,” stammered Watkins, assisting him- 
self to currie and parsley and butter, in the extremity of 
his confusion. 

Not the least consequence,” replied Mrs. Parsons, in 
a tone which implied that it was of the greatest conse- 


2b0 


SKETCHES BY BOZ. 


quence possible, — directing aside the researches of the 
boy, who was groping under the table for the bits of 
broken glass. 

“ I presume,” said Miss Lillerton, “ that Mr. Tottle 
is aware of the interest which bachelors usually pay 
in such cases ; a dozen glasses for one is the lowest 
penalty.” 

Mr. Gabriel Parsons gave his friend an admonitory 
tread on the toe. Here was a clear hint that the sooner 
he ceased to be a bachelor and emancipated himself from 
such penalties, the better. Mr. Watkins Tottle viewed 
the observation in the same light, and challenged Mrs. 
Parsons to take wine, with a degree of presence of mind 
which, under all the circumstances, was really extraor- 
dinary. 

“ Miss Lillerton,” said Gabriel, may I have the pleas- 
ure?” 

“ I shall be most happy.” 

“ Tottle, will you assist Miss Lillerton, and pass the 
decanter. Thank you.” (The usual pantomimic cere- 
mony of nodding and sipping gone through) — 

“ Tottle, were you ever in Suffolk ? ” inquire^ the 
master of the house, who w^as burning to tell one of his 
seven stock stories. 

‘‘No,” responded Watkins, adding, by way of a saving 
clause, “ but I’ve been in Devonshire.” 

“ Ah ! ” replied Gabriel, “ it was in Suffolk that a 
rather singular circumstance happened to me, many 
years ago. Did you ever happen to hear me men- 
tion it ? ” 

Mr. Watkins Tottle had happened to hear his friend 
mention it some four hundred times. Of course he ex- 
pressed great curiosity, and evinced the utmost impa- 


MR. WATKINS TOTTLE. 


281 


tience to hear the story again. Mr. Gabriel Parsons 
forthwith attempted to proceed, in spite of the interrup- 
tions to which, as our readers must frequently have ob- 
served, the master of the house is often exposed in such 
cases. We will attempt to give them an idea of our 
meaning. 

“When I was in Suffolk,” said Mr. Gabriel Par- 
sops — 

“ Take off the fowls first, Martha,” said Mrs. Parsons. 
“ I beg your pardon, my dear.” 

“ When I was in Suffolk,” resumed Mr. Parsons, with 
an impatient glance at his wife, who pretended not to 
observe it, “ which is now some years ago, business led 
me to the town of Bury St. Edmund’s. I had to stop 
at the principal places in my way, and therefore, for the 
sake of convenience, I travelled in a gig. I left Sud- 
bury one dark night — it was winter time — about nine 
o’clock ; the rain poured in torrents, the wind howled 
among the trees that skirted the roadside, and I was 
obliged to proceed at a foot-{)ace, for I could hardly see 
my hand before me, it was so dark — ” 

“John,” interrupted Mrs. Parsons, in a low, hollow 
voice, “ don’t spill that gravy.” 

“ Fanny,” said Parsons impatiently, “ I wish you’d 
defer these domestic reproofs to some more suitable time. 
Really, my dear, these constant interruptions are very 
annoying.” 

“ My dear, I didn’t interrupt you,” said Mrs. Parsons. 

“ But, my dear, you did interrupt me,” remonstrated 
Ml-. Parsons. 

“ How very absurd you are, my love ! I must give 
directions to the servants ; I am quite sure that if I sat 
here and allowed John to spill the gravy over the new 


282 


SKETCHES BY BOZ. 


carpet, you’d be the first to find fault when you saw the 
stain to-raorrow morning.” 

“ Well,” continued Gabriel, with a resigned air, as if 
he knew there w’as no getting over the point about the 
carpet, “ I was just saying, it was so dark that I could 
hardly see my hand before me. The road was very 
lonely, and I assure you, Tottle (this was a device to 
arrest the wandering attention of that individual, which 
was distracted by a confidential communication between 
Mrs. Parsons and Martha, accompanied by the delivery 
of a large bunch of keys), 1 assure you, Tottle, I be- 
came somehow impressed with a sense of the loneliness 
of my situation — ” 

Pie to your master,” interrupted Mrs. Parsons, again 
directing the servant. 

‘‘ Now, pray, my dear,” remonstrated Parsons once 
more, very pettishly. Mrs. P. turned up her hands and 
eyebrows, and appealed in dumb show to ^liss Lillerton. 
‘‘ As I turned a corner of the road,” resumed Gabriel, 
“ the horse stopped short, and reared tremendously. I 
pulled up, jumped out, ran to his head, and found a man 
lying on his back in the middle of the road, with his eyes 
fixed on the sky. I thought he was dead; but no, he 
was alive, and there appeared to be nothing the matter 
with him. He jumped up, and putting his hand to his 
chest, and fixing upon me the most earnest gaze you can 
imagine, exclaimed — ” 

Pudding here,” said Mrs. Parsons. 

‘‘ Oh I it’s no use,” exclaimed the host, now rendered 
desperate. “ Here, Tottle ; a glass of wdne. It’s use- 
less to attempt relating anything when Mrs. Paisons is 
present.” 

This attack ^vas received in the usual way. Mrs. Par- 


MK. WATKINS TOTTLE. 


283 


sons talked to Miss Lillerton and at her better half ; ex- 
patiated on the impatience of men generally ; hinted that 
her husband was peculiarly vicious in this respect, and 
wound up by insinuating that she must be one of the 
best tempers that ever existed, or she never could 
put up with it. Really what she had to endure some- 
times, was more than any one who saw her in every-day 
life could by possibility suppose. — The story was now a 
painful subject, and therefore Mr. Parsons declined to 
enter into any details, and contented himself by stating 
that the man was a maniac, who had escaped from a 
neighboring mixd-house. 

The cloth was removed ; the ladies soon afterwards 
retired, and Miss Lillerton played the piano in the draw- 
ing-room overhead, very loudly, for the edification of the 
visitor. Mr. Watkins Tottle and Mr. Gabriel Parsons 
sat chatting comfortably enough, until the conclusion of 
the second bottle, when the latter, in proposing an ad- 
journment to the drawing-room, informed Watkins that 
he had concerted a plan with his wife, for leaving him 
and Miss Lillerton alone, soon after tea. 

“ I say,” said Tottle, as they went up-stairs, “ don’t you 
think it would be better if we put it olf till — till — to- 
morrow ? ” 

“ Don’t yoit think it would have been much better if 1 
had left you in that wretched hole I found you in this 
morning?” retorted Parsons, bluntly. 

Well — well — I only made a suggestion,” said poor 
Watkins Tottle, with a deep sigh. 

Tea was soon concluded, and Miss Lillerton drawing a 
small work-table on one side of the fire, and placing a 
little wooden frame upon it, something like a miniatui*e 


284 


SKETCHES BY BOZ. 


clay-mill without the horse, was soon busily engaged in 
making a watch-guard with brown silk. 

“ God bless me ! ’’ exclaimed Parsons, starting up with 
well-feigned surprise, “ I’ve forgotten those confounded 
letters. Tottle, I know you’ll excuse me.” 

If Tottle had been a free agent, he would have allowed 
no one to leave the room on any pretence, except him- 
self. As it was, however, he was obliged to look cheer- 
ful when Parsons quitted the apartment. 

He had scarcely left, when Martha put her head into 
the room, with — “ Please, ma’am, you’re wanted.” 

Mrs. Parsons left the room, shut the door carefully 
after her, and Mr. Watkins Tottle was left alone with 
Miss Lillerton. 

For the first five minutes there was a dead silence. — 
Mr. Watkins Tottle was thinking how he should begin, 
and Miss Lillerton appeared to be thinking of nothing. 
The fire was burning low ; Mr. Watkins Tottle stirred 
it, and put some coals on. 

Hem ! ” coughed Miss Lillerton ; Mr. Watkins Tot- 
tle thought the fair creature had spoken. “ I beg your 
pardon,” said he. 

“Eh?” 

“ I' thought you spoke.” 

“ No.” 

“ Oh ! ” 

“There are some books on the sofa, Mr. Tottle, if you 
would like to look at them,” said Miss Lillerton, after the 
lapse of another five minutes. 

“No, thank you,” returned Watkins: and then he 
added, with a courage which was perfectly astonishing, 
even to himself, “ Madam, that is Miss Lillerton, I wish 
to speak to you.” 


MR. WATKINS TOTTLE. 


285 


“ To me ! ” said Miss Lillerton, letting the silk drop 
from her hands, and sliding her chair back a few paces. 
— “ Speak — to me ! ” 

‘‘ To you, madam — and on the subject of the state 
of your affections.” The lady liastily rose, and would 
have left the room; but Mr. Watkins Tottle gently 
detained her by the hand, and holding it as far from him 
as the joint length of their arms would permit, he thus 
proceeded : ‘‘ Pray do not misunderstand me, or suppose 
that 1 am led to address you, after so short an acquaint- 
ance, by any feeling of my own merits — for merits 1 
have none which could give me a claim to your hand. 
I hope you will acquit me of any presumption when I 
explain that I have been acquainted through Mrs. Par- 
sons, with the state — that is, that Mrs. Parsons has 

told me — at least, not Mrs. Parsons, but ” here 

Watkins began to wander, but Miss Lillerton relieved 
him. 

Am I to understand, Mr. Tottle, that Mrs. Parsons 
has acquainted you with my feeling — my affection — 
I mean my respect for an individual of the opposite 
sex ? ” 

She has.” 

“ Then, what ? ” inquired Miss Lillerton, averting her 
face, with a girlish air, “ what could induce you to seek 
such an interview as this ? What can your object be ? 
How can 1 promote your happiness, Mr. Tottle?” 

Here was the time for a flourish — “By allowing 
me,” replied Watkins, falling bump on his knees, and 
breaking two brace-buttons and a waistcoat-string, in 
the act — “ By allowing me to be your slavey your 
servant — in short, by unreservedly making me the 
confidant of your lieart’s feelings — may I say, for the 


286 


SKETCHES BY BOZ. 


promotion of your own happiness — may I say, in ordei 
that you may become the wife of a kind and affectionate 
husband ? ’’ 

“ Disinterested creature ! ’’ exclaimed Miss Lillerton, 
hiding her face in a white pocket-handkercliief with an 
eyelet-hole border. 

Mr. Watkins Tottle thought that if the lady knew all, 
she might possibly alter her opinion on this last point. 
He raised the tip of her middle finger ceremoniously to 
his lips, and got off his knees as gracefully as he could. 
‘‘ My information was correct ? ” he tremulously in- 
quired, when he was once more on his feet. 

“It was.” Watkins elevated his hands and looked 
up to the ornament in the centre of the ceiling, which 
had been made for a lamp, by way of expressing his 
rapture. 

“ Our situation, Mr. Tottle,” resumed the lady, glan- 
cing at him through one of the eyelet-holes, “ is a most 
peculiar and delicate one.” 

“ It is,” said Mr. Tottle. 

“ Our acquaintance has been of so short duration,” said 
Miss Lillerton. 

“ Only a week,” assented Watkins Tottle. 

“ Oh ! more than that,” exclaimed the lady, in a tone 
of surprise. 

“ Indeed ! ” said Tottle. 

“ More than a month — more than two months ! ” said 
Miss Lillerton. 

“Rather odd, this,” thought Watkins. 

“ Oh ! ” he said, recollecting Parsons’s assurance that 
she h#d known him from report, “ I understand. But, 
my dear madam, pray consider. The longer this ac- 
quaintance has existed, the less reason is there for delay 


MR. WATKINS TOTTLE. 


287 


now. Why not at once fix a period for gratifying the 
hopes of your devoted admirer ? ” 

It has been represented to me again and again that 
this is the course I ought to pursue,” replied Miss Liller- 
ton, “ but pardon my feelings of delicacy, Mr. Tottle — 
pray excuse this embarrassment — I have peculiar ideas 
on sucl*' subjects, and I am quite sure that I never could 
summon up fortitude enough to name the day to my fu- 
ture husband.” 

Then allow me to name it,” said Tottle, eagerly. 

“ I should like to fix it myself,” replied Miss Liller- 
ton, bashfully, “but I cannot do so without at once 
resorting to a third party.” 

“A third party!” thought Watkins Tottle; “who 
the deuce is that to be, I wonder I ” 

“ Mr. Tottle,” continued Miss Lillerton, “ you have 
made me a most disinterested and kind offer — that offer 
I accept. Will you at once be the bearer of a note from 
me to — to Mr. Timson?” 

“ Mr. Timson 1 ” said Watkins. 

“ After what has passed between us,” responded Miss 
Lillerton, still averting her head, “ you must understand 
whom I mean ; Mr. Timson, the — the — clergyman.” 

“ Mr. Timson, the clergyman I ” ejaculated Watkins 
Tottle, in a state of inexpressible beatitude,^ and positive 
wonder at his own success. “ Angel ! Certainly — this 
moment 1 ” 

“ ril prepare it immediately,” said Miss Lillerton, 
making for the door ; “ the events of this day have 
flurried me so much, Mr. Tottle, that I shall not leave 
my room again this evening ; I will send you the note 
Dy the servant.” 

“Stay — stay,” cried Watkins Tottle, still keeping a 


288 


SKETCHES BY BOZ. 


most respectful distance from the lady ; ‘‘ when shall we 
meet again ? 

“ Oh ! Mr. Tottle,” replied Miss Lillerton, coquet- 
tishly, “ when we are married, I can never see you too 
often, nor thank you too much ; ” and she left the room. 

Mr. Watkins Tottle flung himself into an arm-chair, 
and indulged in the most delicious reveries o£ future 
bliss, in which the idea of “ Five hundred pounds per 
annum, with an uncontrolled power of disposing of it by 
her last will and testament,” was somehow or other the 
foremost. Pie had gone through the interview so well, 
and it had terminated so admirably, that he almost began 
to wish he had expressly stipulated for the settlement of 
the annual five hundred on himself. 

“ May I come in ? ” said Mr. Gabriel Parsons, peep- 
ing in at the door. 

“ You may,” replied Watkins. 

“ Well, have you done it ? ” anxiously inquired Gabriel. 

“ Have I done it ! ” said Watkins Tottle, “ Hush — 
I'm going to the clergyman.” 

“ No ! ” said Parsons. “ How well you have managed 
it ! ” 

“ AVhere does Timson live ? ” inquired Watkins. 

“At his uncle’s,” replied Gabriel, “just round the 
lane. He’s waiting for a living, and has been assisting 
Ids uncle here for the last two or three months. But 
how well you have done it — I didn’t think you could 
have carried it off so ! ” 

IMr. Watkins Tottle was proceeding to demonstrate 
that the Richardsonian principle was the best on which 
love could possibly be made, when he was interrupted 
by the entrance of Martha, with a little pink note folded 
like a fancy cocked hat. 


MR. WATKINS TOTTLE. 


2S9 


“ Miss Lillerton's compliiiients,'’ said Martha, as she 
delivered it into Tottle’s hands, and vanished. 

“ Do you observe the delicacy ? ” said Tottle, appeal- 
ing to Mr. Gabi’iel Parsons. Compliments not love, by 
tiie servant, eh ? ” 

Mr. Gabriel Parsons didn’t exactly know what reply 
to make, so he poked tlie forefinger of* his right hand 
between the tliird and fourth ribs of Mr. Watkins Tottle. 

Come,” said Watkins, when the explosion of mirth 
consequent on this practical jest had subsided, “ we'll be 
off at once — let’s lose no time.” 

“ Capital ! ” echoed Gabriel Parsons ; and in five 
minutes they were at the garden-gate of the villa ten- 
anted by the uncle of Mr. Timson. 

Is Mr. Charles Timson at home ? ” inquired JMr. 
Watkins Tottle of Mr. Charles Timson's uncle’s man. 

“ Mr. Charles is at home,” replied the man, stammer- 
ing ; but he desired me to say he couldn’t be inter- 
rupted, sir, by any of the parishioners.” 

‘‘7 am not a parishioner,” replied Watkins. 

‘‘ Is Mr. Charles writing a sermon, Tom ? ” inquired 
Parsons, thrusting himself forward. 

“ No, Mr. Parsons, sir ; he’s not exactly writing a 
sermon, but he is practising the violoncello in his own 
bedroom, and gave strict orders not to be disturbed.” 

“ Say Pm here,” replied Gabriel, leading the way 
across * the garden ; ‘‘ Mr. Parsons and Mr. Tottle, on 
private and particular business.” 

They were shown into the parlor, and the servant de- 
parted to deliver his message. The distant groaning 
of the violoncello ceased ; footsteps were heard on the 
stairs ; and Mr. Timson presented himself, and shook 
hands with Parsons with the utmost cordiality. 

39 


VOL. II. 


290 


SKETCHES BY BOZ. 


“ How do you do, sir ? ” said Watkins Tottle, with 
great solemnity. 

“ How do you do, sir ? ” replied Timson, with as much 
coldness as if it were a matter of perfect indifference to 
him how he did, as it very likely was. 

“ I beg to deliver this note to you,” said Watkins 
Tottle, producing the cocked hat. 

From Miss Lillerton ! ” said Timson, suddenly 
changing color. Pray sit down.” 

Mr. Watkins Tottle sat down ; and while Timson pe- 
rused the note, fixed his eyes on an oyster-sauce-colored 
portrait of the Archbishop of Canterbury, which hung 
over the fireplace. 

Mr. Timson rose from his seat when he had concluded 
the note, and looked dubiously at Parsons — “ May I 
ask,” he inquired, appealing to Watkins Tottle, “whether 
our friend here is acquainted with the object of your 
visit ? ” 

“ Our friend is in my confidence,” replied Watkins, 
with considerable importance. 

“ Then, sir,” said Timson, seizing both Tottle’s hands, 
“ allow me in his presence to thank you most unfeignedly 
and cordially, for the noble ])art you have acted in this 
affair.” 

“ He thinks I recommended him,” thought Tottle. 
“ Confound these fellows ! they never think of anything 
but their fees.” 

“ I deeply regret having misunderstood your inten- 
tions, my dear sir,” continued Timson. “ Disinterested 
and manly, indeed ! There are very few men who would 
have acted as you have done.” 

!&Ir. Watkins Tottle could not help thinking that 
this last remark was anything but complimentar}^ 


MR. WATKINS TOTTLE. 


291 


He therefore inquired, rather hastily, ‘‘When is it to 
be ? 

“ On Thursday,” replied Timson, — “ on Thursday 
morning at half-past eight.” 

“ Uncommonly early,” observed Watkins Tottle, with 
an air of triumphant self-denial. “ I shall hardly be 
able to get down here by that hour.” (This was in- 
tended for a joke.) 

“ Never mind, my dear fellow,” replied Timson, all 
suavity, shaking hands with Tottle again most heartily, 
“ so long as we see you to breakfast, you know — ” 

“ ICh ! ” said Parsons, wdth one of the most extraor- 
dinary expressions of countenance that ever appeared in 
a human face. 

“ What !•” ejaculated W atkins Tottle, at the same 
moment. 

“ I say that so long as we see you to breakfast,” re- 
peated Timson, “ we will excuse your being absent from 
the ceremony, though of course your presence at it would 
give us the utmost pleasure.” 

Mr. Watkins Tottle staggered against the wall, and 
fixed his eyes on Timson with appalling perseverance. 

“ Timson,” said Parsons, hurriedly brushing his hat 
wdth his left arm, “ when you say ‘ us,’ whom do you 
mean ? ” 

Mr. Timson looked foolish in his turn, when he re- 
plied, “ Why — Mrs. Timson that will be this day week : 
]\!iss Lillerton that is — ” 

“ Now don’t stare at that idiot in the corner,” angrily 
exclaimed Parsons, as the extraordinary convulsions of 
Watkins Tottle’s countenance excited the wmndering 
gaze of Timson, — “ but have the goodness to tell me 
in three words the contents of that note.” 


292 


SKETCHES BY BOZ. 


“ This note,” replied Timson, “ is from Miss Lillerton, 
to whom I have been for the last five weeks regularly 
engaged. Her singular scruples and strange feeling on 
some points have hitherto prevented my bringing the 
engagement to that termination which 1 so anxiously 
desire. She informs me here, that she sounded Mrs. 
Parsons with the view of making her her confidant and 
go-between, that ]\Irs. Parsons informed this elderly gen- 
tleman, Mr. Tottle, of the circumstance, and that he, in 
the most kind and delicate terms, offered to assist us in 
any way, and even undertook to convey this note, which 
contains the promise I have long sought in vain — an 
act of kindness for w’hich I can never be sufiiciently 
grateful.” 

“ Good night, Timson,” said Parsons, hurrying off, and 
carrying the bewildered Tottle with him. 

Won’t you stay — and have something ? ” said 
Timson. 

‘‘ No, thank ye,” replied Parsons ; “ I’ve had quite 
enough ; ” and away he went, followed by Watkins 
Tottle in a state of stupefaction. 

Mr. Gabriel Parsons whistled until they had walked 
some quarter of a mile past his own gate, w^hen he 
suddenly stopped, and said, — 

“ You are a clever fellow, Tottle, a’n’t you ? ” 

‘‘ I don’t know,” said the unfortunate Watkins. 

“ I suppose you’ll say this is Fanny’s fault, won’t you ?” 
inquired Gabriel. 

“ I don’t know anything about it,” replied the bewil- 
dered Tottle. 

“ Well,” said Parsons, turning on his heel to go home, 
‘‘ the next time you make an offer, you had better speak 
plainly, and don’t throw a chance away. And the next 


MR. WATKINS TOTTLE. 


293 


time you’re locked up in a spunging-house, just wail 
there till I come and take you out, there’s a good 
fellow.” 

How, or at what hour, Mr. Watkins Tottle' returned 
to Cecil Street is unknown. His boots were seen out- 
side his bedroom-door next morning ; but w^e have the 
authority of his landlady for stating that he neither 
emerged therefrom nor accepted sustenance for four-and- 
twenty hours. At the expiration of that period, and 
when a council of war was being held in the kitchen on 
the propriety of summoning the parochial beadle to break 
his door open, he rang his bell, and demanded a cup of 
milk-and-water. The next morning he went through the 
formalities of eating and drinking as usual, but a week 
afterwards he was seized with a relapse, while perusing 
the list of marriages in a morning paper, from which he 
never perfectly recovered. 

A few weeks after the last-named occurrence, the body 
of a gentleman unknown was found in the Regent’s canal. 
In the trousers-pockets were four shillings and threepence 
halfpenny ; a matrimonial advertisement from a lady, 
which appeared to have been cut out of a Sunday paper ; 
a toothpick, and a card-case, which it is confidently be- 
lieved would have led to the identification of the unfor- 
tunate gentleman, but for the circumstance of there 
being none but blank cards in it. Mr. Watkins Tottle 
absented himself from his lodgings shortly before. A 
bill, which has not been taken up, was presented next 
morning ; and a bill, which has not been taken down, was 
soon afterwards affixed in his parlor-window. 


294 


SKETCHES BY BOZ. 


CHAPTER XL 

• THE BLOOMSBURY CHRISTENING. 

[The Author may be permitted to observe that this sketch was pub- 
lished some time before the Farce entitled “ The Christening” was 
first represented.] 

Mr. Nicodemus Dumps, or, as his acquaintance 
called him, “ long Dumps,” was a bachelor, six feet 
high, and fifty years old ; cross, cadaverous, odd, and ill- 
natured. He was never happy but when he was miser- 
able ; and always miserable when he had the best reason 
to be happy. The only real comfort of his existence was 
to make everybody about him wretched — then he might 
be truly said to enjoy life. He was afflicted with a situa- 
tion in the Bank worth five hundred a year, and he rented 
a ‘‘ first-floor furnished,” at Pentonville, which he origi- 
nally took because it commanded a dismal prospect of an 
adjacent churchyard. He was familiar with the face of 
every tombstone, and the burial service seemed to excite 
his strongest sympathy. His friends, said he was surly 
— he insisted he was nervous ; they thought him a lucky 
dog, but he protested that he was “ the most unfortunate 
man in the world.” Cold as he was, and wretched as he 
declared himself to be, he was not wholly unsusceptible 
of attachments. He revered the memory of Hoyle, as 
he was himself an admirable and imperturbable whist- 
player, and he chuckled with delight at a fretful and 
impatient adversary. He adored King Herod for his 
massacre of the innocents ; and if he hated one thing 
more than another, it was a child^ However, he could 


THE BLOOMSBURY CHRISTENING. 


295 


hardly be said to hate anything in particular, because he 
disliked everything in general ; but perhaps his greatest 
antipathies were cabs, old women, doors that would not 
shut, musical amateurs, and omnibus cads. He sub- 
scribed to the “ Society for the Suppression of Vice,” for 
the pleasure of putting a stop to any harmless amuse - 
ments ; and he contributed largely towards the support 
of two itinerant methodist parsons, in the amiable hope 
that if circumstances rendered any people happy in this 
v'orld, they might perchance be rendered miserable by 
fears for the next. 

Mr. Dumps had a nephew who- had been married 
about a year, and who was somewhat of a favorite with 
his uncle, because he was an admirable subject to exer- 
cise his misery-creating powers upon. Mr. Charles Kit- 
terbell was a small, sharp, spare man, with a very large 
head, and a broad, good-humored countenance. He 
looked like a faded giant, with the head and face partially 
restored ; and he had a cast in his eye which rendered 
it quite impossible for any one with whom he conversed 
to know where he was looking. His eyes appeared fixed 
on the wall, and he was staring you out of countenance ; 
in short, there was no catching his eye, and perhaps it is 
a merciful dispensation of Providence that such eyes are 
not catching. In addition to these characteristics, it may 
be added that Mr. Charles Kitterbell was one of the 
most credulous and matter-of-fact little personages that 
ever took to himself a wife, and for himself a house in 
Great Russell Street, Bedford Square. (Uncle Dumps 
always dropped the “ Bedford Square,” and inserted in 
lieu thereof the dreadful words “ Tottenham Court 
Road.”) 

“ No, but uncle, ’pon my life you must — you must 


296 


SKETCHES BY BOZ. 


promise to godfather,” said Mr. Kitterbell, as he sat 
in conversation with his respected relative one morning. 

“ I cannot, indeed I cannot,” returned Dumps. 

“Well, but why not? Jemima will think it very un- 
kind. It’s very little trouble.” 

“ As to the trouble,” rejoined the most unhappy man 
in existence, “ I don’t mind that ; but my nerves are in 
that state — I cannot go thj-ough the ceremony. You 
know I don’t like going out. — For God’s sake, Charles, 
don’t fidget with that stool so ; you’ll drive me mad.” 
Mr. Kitterbell, quite regardless of his uncle’s nerves, 
had occupied himself for some ten minutes in describ- 
ing a circle on the floor with one leg of the office-stool 
on which he was seated, keeping the other three up in 
the air, and holding fast on by the desk. 

“ I beg your pardon, uncle,” said Kitterbell, quite 
abashed, suddenly releasing his hold of the desk, and 
bringing the three wandering legs back to the floor, with 
a force sufficient to drive them through it. 

“ But come, don’t refuse. If it’s a boy, you know, w^e 
must have two godfathers.” 

“ If it’s a boy ! ” said Dumps ; “ why can’t you say at 
once whether it is a boy or not ? ” 

“ I should be very happy to tell you, but it’s impossible 
I can undertake to say whether it’s a girl or a boy, if 
the child isn’t born yet.” 

“ Not born yet ! ” echoed Dumps, with a gleam of hope 
lighting up his lugubrious visage. “ Oh, well, it may be 
a girl, and then you won’t want me ; or if it is a boy, it 
may die before it is christened.” 

“ I hope not,” said the father that expected to be, look- 
ing very grave. 

“I hope not,” acquiesced Dumps, evidently pleased 


THE BLOOMSBUKY CHKISTENING. 


297 


with the subject. He was beginning to get happy. ‘‘ 1 
hope not, but distressing cases frequently occur during 
the first two or three days of a child’s life ; fits, I am 
told, are exceedingly common, and alarming convulsions 
are almost matters of course.” 

“ Lord, uncle,” ejaculated little Kitterbell, gasping for 
breath. 

“ Yes ; my landlady was confined — let me see — last 
Tuesday : an uncommonly fine boy. On the Thursday 
night the nurse was sitting with him upon her knee be- 
fore the fire, and he was as well as possible. Suddenly 
he became black in the face, and alarmingly spasmodic. 
The medical man was instantly sent for, and every 
remedy was tried, but — ” 

“ How frightful ! ” interrupted the horror-stricken 
Kitterbell. 

“ The child died, of course. However, your child may 
not die ; and if it should be a boy, and should live to be 
christened, why I suppose I must be one of the spon- 
sors.” Dumps was evidently good-natured on the faith 
of his anticipations. 

“ Thank you, uncle,” said his agitated nephew, grasp- 
ing his hand as warmly as if he had done him some 
essential service. ‘‘ Perhaps I had better not tell Mrs. 
K. what you have mentioned.” 

“ Why, if she’s low-spirited, perhaps you had better 
not mention the melancholy case to her,” returned Dumps, 
who of course had invented the whole story ; “ though 
perhaps it would be but doing your duty as a husband to 
prepare her for the worst'^ 

A day or two afterwards, as Dumps was perusing a 
morning paper at the chop-house which he regularly fre- 
quented, the following paragraph met his eye : — 


298 


SKETCHES BY BOZ. 


“ Blrih'j. — On Saturday, the 18th inst., iu Great Russell Street, the 
lady of Charles Kitterbell, Esq., of a son.” 

“It is a boy I ” he exclaimed, dashing down the paper, 
to the astonishment of the waiters. “ It is a boy ! ” But 
he speedily regained his composure as his eye rested on 
a paragraph quoting the number of infant deaths from 
the bills of mortality. 

Six weeks passed away, and as no communication had 
been received from the Kitterbells, Dumps was beginning 
to flatter himself that the child was dead, when the fol- 
lowing note painfully resolved his doubts : — 

“ Great Russell Street^ 

“ Monday morning. 

“ Dear Uncle, — You will be delighted to hear that 
my dear Jemima has left her room, and that your future 
godson is getting on capitally. He was very tliin at first, 
but he is getting much larger, and nurse says he is filling 
out every day. He cries a good deal, and is a very sin- 
gular color, which made Jemima and me rather uncomfort- 
able ; but as nurse says it’s natural, and as of course we 
know nothing about these things yet, we are quite satis- 
fied with what nurse says. We think he will be a sharp 
child ; and nurse says she’s sure he will, because he 
never goes to sleep. You will readily believe that we 
are all very happy, only we’re a little worn out for want 
of rest, as he keeps us awake all night ; but this we must 
expect, nurse says, for the first six or eight months. He 
has been vaccinated, but in consequence of the operation 
being rather awkwardly performed, some small particles 
of glass were introduced into the arm with the matter. 
Perhaps this may in some degree account for his being 
rather fractious ; at least, so nurse says. We propose 


THE BLOOMSBURY CHRISTENING. 


299 


to have him christened at twelve o’clock on Friday, al 
St. George’s church, in Hart Street, by the name of 
Frederick Charles William. Pray don't be later than a 
quarter before twelve. We shall have a very few friends 
in the evening, when of course we shall see you, I am 
sorry to say that the dear boy appears rather restless 
and uneasy to-day : the cause, I fear, is fever. 

“ Believe me, dear Uncle, 

“ Yours affectionately, 

“ Charles Kitterbell. 

P. S. — I open this note to say that we have just dis- 
covei'ed the cause of little Frederick’s restlessness. It is 
not fever, as I apprehended, but a small pin, which nurse 
accidentally stuck in his leg yesterday evening. We 
have taken it out, and he appears more composed, though 
he still sobs a good deal.” 

It is almost unnecessary to say that the perusal of the 
above interesting statement was no great relief to the 
mind of the hypochondriacal Dumps. It was impossible 
to recede, however, and so he put the best face — that is 
to say, an uncommonly miserable one — upon the matter ; 
and purchased a handsome silver mug for the infant Kit- 
terbell, upon which he ordered the initials ‘‘ F. C. W. K.” 
with the customary untrained grape-vine-looking flour- 
ishes, and a large full stop, to be engraved forthwith. 

Monday was a fine day, Tuesday was delightful, Wed- 
nesday was equal to either, and Thursday was finer than 
ever ; four successive fine days in London ! Hackney- 
coachmen became revolutionary, and crossing-sweepers 
began to doubt the existence of a First Cause. The 
Morning Herald informed its readers that an old woman 


800 


SKETCHES BY BOZ. 


in Camden Town had been heard to say that the fineness 
of the season was “ unprecedented in the memory of the 
oldest inhabitant ; ” and Islington clerks with large fami- 
lies and small salaries, left off their black gaiters, dis- 
dained to carry their once green cotton umbrellas, and 
walked to town in the conscious pride of white stockings 
and cleanly brushed Bluchers. Dumps beheld all this 
with an eye of supreme contempt — his triumph was at 
hand. He knew that if it had been fine for four weeks 
instead of four days, it would rain when he went out ; 
he was lugubriously happy in the conviction that Friday 
would be a wretched day — and so it was. “ I knew how 
it would be,” said Dumps, as he turned round opposite the 
Mansion House at half-past eleven o’clock on the Friday 
morning. “ I knew how it would be ; I am concerned, 
and that’s enough ; ” — and certainly the appearance of 
the day was sufficient to depress the spirits of a much 
more buoyant-hearted individual than himself. It had 
rained, without a moment’s cessation, since eight o’clock ; 
everybody that passed up Clieapside, and down Cheap- 
side, looked wet, cold, and dirty. All sorts of forgotten 
and long-concealed umbrellas had been put into requisi- 
tion. Cabs whisked about, with the “ fare ” as carefully 
boxed up behind two glazed calico curtains as any mys- 
terious picture in any one of Mrs. Radclitfe’s castles ; 
omnibus horses smoked like steam-engines ; nobody 
thought of standing up ” under doorways or arches ; 
they were painfully convinced it was a hopeless case ; 
and so everybody went hastily along, jumbling and jost- 
ling, and swearing and perspiring, and slipping about, like 
amateur skaters behind wooden chairs on the Serpentine 
on a frosty Sunday. 

Dumps paused ; he could not think of walking, being 


THE BLOOMSBURY CHRISTENING. 


301 


rather smart for the christening. If he took a cab he 
was sure to be spilt, and a hackney-coach was too ex- 
pensive for his economical ideas. An omnibus was wait- 
ing at the opposite corner — it was a desperate case — 
he had never heard of an omnibus upsetting or running 
away, and if the cad did knock him down, he could “ pull 
him up ’’ in return. 

“ ISow, sir! ” cried the young gentleman who officiated 
as cad ” to the “ Lads of the Village,” which was the 
name of the machine just noticed. Dumps crossed. 

This vay, sir 1 ” shouted the driver of the Hark- 
away,” pulling up his vehicle immediately across the 
door of the opposition — This vay, sir — he's full.” 
Dumps hesitated, whereupon the “ Lads of the Village ” 
commenced pouring out a torrent of abuse against the 
“ Hark-away ; ” but the conductor of the “ Admiral 
Napier ” settled tlie contest in a most satisfactory man- 
ner for all parties, by seizing Dumps round the waist, 
and thrusting him into the middle of his vehicle which 
had just come up and only wanted the sixteenth inside. 

“ All right,” said the “ Admiral,” and off the thing 
thundered, like a fire-engine at full gallop, with the kid- 
napped customer inside, standing in the position of a 
half doubled up bootjack, and falling about with every 
jerk of the machine, first on the one side and then on 
the Other like a ‘‘Jack-in-the-green,” on May-day, set- 
ting to the lady with a brass ladle. 

“For Heaven’s sake, where am I to sit?” inquired 
the miserable- man of an old gentleman, into whose 
stomach he had just fallen for the fourth time. 

“ AnywLere but on my chesty sir,” replied the old 
gentleman in a surly tone. 

“ Perhaps the box would suit the gentleman bettor/' 


802 


SKETCHES BY BOZ. 


suggested a very damp lawyer’s clerk, in a pink shirt, 
and a smirking countenance. 

After a great deal of struggling and falling about, 
Dumps at last managed to squeeze himself into a seat, 
which in addition to the slight disadvantage of being be- 
tween a window that would not shut, and a door that 
must be open, placed him in close contact with a passen- 
ger who had been walking about ail the morning without 
an umbrella, and who looked as if he had spent the day 
in a full water-butt — only wetter. 

“ Don’t bang the door so,” said Dumps to the con- 
ductor, as he shut it, after letting out four of the pas- 
sengers ; ‘‘ I am very nervous — it destroys me.” 

Did any gen’Emhi say anythink ? ” replied the cad, 
thrusting in his head, and trying to look as if he didn’t 
understand the request. 

I told you not to bang the door so ! ” repeated 
Dumps, with an expression of countenmice like the 
knave of clubs, in convulsions. 

“ Oh ! vy, it’s rather a sing ler circumstance about this 
here door, sir, that it von’t shut without banging,” replied 
the conductor ; and he opened the door very wide, and 
shut it again with a terrific bang, in proof of the asser- 
tion. 

“ 1 beg your pardon, sir,” said a little prim, Avheezing 
old gentleman, sitting opposite Dumps, “ I beg your par- 
don ; but have you ever observed, when you have been 
in an omnibus on a wet day, that four people out of five 
always come in Avith large cotton umbrellas, without a 
handle at the top, or the brass spike at the bottom ? ” 

‘‘ Why, sir,” returned Dumps, as he heard the clock 
strike twelve, “ it never struck me before ; but now you 
mention it, I — Hollo ! hollo ! ” shouted the persecuted 


THE BLOOMSBURY CHRISTENING. 


303 


individual, as the omnibus dashed past Drury Lano, 
where he had directed to be set down. — “ Where is the 
cad?” 

“ I think he’s on the lx)x, sir,” said the young gentle- 
man before noticed in the pink shirt, which looked like a 
white one ruled with red ink. 

I want to be set down ! ” said Dumps, in a faint 
voice, overcome by his previous efforts. 

“ I think these cads wants to be set doxon^' returned 
the attorney’s clerk, chuckling at his sally. 

Hollo ! ” cried Dumps again. 

‘‘ Hollo ! ” echoed the passengers. Tiie omnibus passed 
St. Giles’s church. 

Hold hard ! ” said the conductor ; “ I’m blowed if we 
ha’n’t forgot the gen’Fm’n as vas to be set down at Doory 
Lane. — Now, sir, make haste, if you please,” he added, 
opening the door, and assisting Dumps out with as much 
coolness as if it was “ all right.” Dumps’s indignation 
was for once getting the better of his cynical equanimity. 
“ Drury Lane I ” he gasped, with the voice of a boy in a 
cold bath for the first time. 

Doory Lane, sir ? — yes, sir, — third turning on the 
right-hand side, sir.” 

Dumps’s passion was paramount ; he clutched liis um- 
brella, and was striding off with the firm determination 
of not paying the fare. The cad, by a remarkable coin- 
cidence, happened to entertain a directly contrary opin- 
ion, and Heaven knows how far the altercation would 
have proceeded if it had not been most ably and satis- 
factorily brought to a close by the driver. 

“ Hollo ! ” said that respectable person, standing up on 
the box, and leaning with one hand on the roof of the 
omnibus. “ Hollo, Tom ! tell the gentleman if so be as 


304 


SKETCHES BY BOZ. 


he feels aggrieved, we will take him up to the Edge-er 
(Edge ware) Road for nothing, and set him down at 
Doory Lane when we comes back. He caift reject 
that, anyhow.” 

The argument was irresistible : Dumps paid the dis- 
puted sixpence, and in a quarter of an hour was on the 
staircase of No. 14, Great Russell Street. 

Everything indicated that preparations were making 
for the reception of a few fiiends ” in the evening. 
Two dozen extra tumblers, and four ditto wine-glasses — 
looking anything but transparent, with little bits of straw 
in them — were on the slab in the passage, just arrived. 
There was a great smell of nutmeg, port wine, and al- 
monds, on the staircase ; the covers were taken off the 
stair-carpet, and the figure of Venus on the first landing 
looked as if she were ashamed of the composition-candle 
in her right hand, which contrasted beautifidly with the 
lamp-blacked drapery of the goddess of love. The female 
servant (who looked very warm and bustling) ushered 
Dumps into a front drawing-room, very prettily fur- 
nished, with a plentiful sprinkling of little baskets, paper 
table-mats, china watchmen, pink and gold albums, and 
rainbow-bound little books on the different tables. 

Ah, uncle ! ” said Mr. Kitterbell, how d’ye do ? 
Allow me — Jemima, my dear — my uncle. I think 
.you’ve seen Jemima before, sir?” 

“ Have had the pleasure,'* returned big Dumps, his 
tone and look making it doubtful whether in his life he 
had ever experienced the sensation. 

‘‘ I’m sure,” said Mrs. Kitterbell, with a languid smile, 
and a slight cough. I'm sure — hem — any friend — 
of Charles’s — hem — much less a relation, is — ” 

“ I knew you’d say so, my love,” said little Kitterbell, 


THE BLOOMSBURY CHRISTENING. 


305 


who, while he appeared to be gazing on the opposite 
houses, was looking at his wife with a most affectionate 
air : ‘‘ Bless you ! The last two words were accompa- 
nied wdth a simper, and a squeeze of the hand, which 
stirred up all Uncle Dumps’s bile. 

“ Jane, tell nurse to bring down baby,” said Mrs. Kit- 
terbell, addressing the seiwant. Mrs. Kitterbell was a 
tall, thin young lady, witli very light hair, and a particu- 
larly white flice — one of those young women Avho almost 
invariably, tliough one hardly knows why, recall to one’s 
mind the idea of a cold fillet of veal. Out went the ser- 
vant, and in came the nurse, with a remarkably small 
parcel in her arms, packed up in a blue mantle trimmed 
with white fur. — This was the baby. 

“ Now, uncle,” said Mr. Kitterbell, lifting up that part 
of the mantle which covered the infant’s face, with an air 
of great triumph, “ IVAo do you think he’s like ? ” 

“ Pie ! he ! Yes, who ? ” said Mrs. K., putting her arm 
through her husband’s, and looking up into Dumps’s face 
witli an expression of as much interest as slie was capa- 
ble of displaying. 

“ Good God, how small he is I ” cried the amiable 
uncle, starting back with w^ell-feigned surprise; “r^- 
markahly small indeed.” 

“ Do you think so ? ” inquired poor little Kitterbell, 
ratlier alarmed. “ He’s a monster to what he was — 
a’n't he, nurse ? ” 

“ He’s a dear,” said the nurse, squeezing the child, and 
evading the question — not because she scrupled to dis- 
guise the fact, but because she couldn’t afford to throw 
away the chance of Dumps’s half-crown. 

“ Well, but who is he like ?” inquired little Kitterbell. 

Dumps looked at the little pink heap before him, and 
20 


\ni.. IT. 


806 


SKETCHES BY BOZ. 


only thought at the moment of the best mode of mortify- 
ing the youthful parents. 

‘‘ I really don’t know who he’s like,” he answered, very 
well knowing the reply expected of him. 

“ Don’t you think he’s like me ? ” inquired his nephew 
with a knowing air. 

“ Oh, decidedly not ! ” returned Dumps, with an em- 
phasis not to be misunderstood. “ Decidedly not like 
you. — Oh, certainly not.” 

“ Like Jemima ? ” asked Kitterbell, faintly. 

“ Oh dear, no ; not in the least. I’m no judge, of 
course, in such cases ; but I really think he’s more like 
one of those little carved representations that one some- 
times sees blowing a trumpet on a tombstone ! ” The 
nurse stooped down over the child, and with great diffi- 
culty prevented an explosion of mirth. Pa and ma 
looked almost as miserable as their amiable uncle. 

“ Well !” said the disappointed little father, ‘‘you’ll be 
better able to tell wliat he’s like by and by. You shall 
see him this evening with his mantle off.” 

“ Thank you,” said Dumps, feeling particularly grate- 
ful. 

“ Now, my love,” said Kitterbell to his wife, “ it's time 
we were off. We’re to meet the other godfather, and the 
godmother at the church, uncle, — Mr. and Mrs. Wilson 
from over the way — uncommonly nice people. J\Iy love, 
are you well wrapped up ? ” 

“ Yes, dear.” 

“ Are you sure you won’t have another shawl ? ” in- 
quired the anxious husband. 

“ No, sweet,” returned the charming mother, accepting 
Dumps’s proffered arm ; and the little party entered the 
hackney-coach that was to take them to the church ; 


THE BLOOMSBURY CHRISTENING. 


307 


Dumps amusing, Mrs. Kitterbell by expatiating largely 
on the danger of measles, thrush, teeth -cutting, and other 
interesting diseases to which children are subject. 

The ceremony (which occupied about five minutes) 
passed off without anything particular occurring. The 
clergyman had to dine some distance from town, and had 
two churchings, three christenings, and a funeral to per- 
form in something less than an hour. The godfathers 
and godmother, therefore, promised to renounce the devil 
and all his works — and all that sort of thing ” — as 
little Kitterbell said — “ in less than no time ; ” and, 
mth the exception of Dumps nearly letting the child fall 
into the font when he handed it to the clergyman, the 
whole affair went off in the usual business-like and 
matter-of-course manner, and Dumps reentered the 
Bank-gates at two o’clock with a heavy heart, and the 
painful conviction that he was regularly booked for an 
evening party. 

Evening came — and so did Dumps’s pumps, black 
silk stockings, and white cravat which he had ordered to 
be forwarded, per boy, from Pentonville. The depressed 
godfather dressed himself at a friend’s counting-house, 
from whence, with his spirits fifty degrees below proof, 
he sallied forth — as the weather had cleared up, and 
the evening was tolerably fine — to walk to Great Rus- 
sell Street. Slowly he paced up Cheapside, Newgate 
Street, down Snow Hill, and up Holborn ditto, looking 
as grim as the figure-head of a man-of-war, and finding 
out fresh causes of misery at every step. As he w^as 
crossing the corner of Hatton Garden, a man apparently 
intoxicated rushed against him, and would have knocked 
him down, had he not been providentially caught by a 
very genteel young man, who happened to be close tc 


308 


SKETCHES BY BOZ. 


him at the time. The shock so disarranged Dumps’a 
nerves, as well as his dress, that he could hardly stand. 
The gentleman took his arm, and in tlie kindest manner 
walked with him as far as Furnival’s Inn. Dumps, 
for about the first time in his life, felt grateful and polite ; 
and he and the gentlemanly looking young man parted 
with mutual expressions of good will. 

“ There are at least some well-disposed men in tlie 
world,” ruminated the misanthropical Dumps, as he pro- 
ceeded towards his destination. 

Rat — tat — ta-ra-ra-ra-ra-rat — knocked a hackney- 
coachman at Kitterbelfs door, in imitation of a gentle- 
man’s servant, just as Dumps reached it ; and out came 
an old lady in a large toque, and an old gentleman in a 
blue coat, and three female copies of the old lady in pink 
dresses, and shoes to match. 

“ It’s a large party,” sighed tlie unhappy godfather, 
wdping the perspiration from his forehead, and leaning 
against the area-railings. It was some time before the 
miserable man could muster up courage to knock at the 
door, and when he did, the smart appearance of a neigh- 
boring greengrocer (who had been hired to wait for seven 
and sixpence, and whose calves alone Avere Avorth double 
the money), the lamp in the passage, and the Venus on 
the landing, added to the hum of many voices, and the 
sound of a harp and two violins, painfully convinced him 
that his surmises were but too Avell-founded. 

How are you ? ” said little Kitterbell, in a greater 
bustle than ever, bolting out of the little back-parlor Avith 
a corkscrew in his hand, and various particles of saw- 
dust, looking like so many inverted commas, on his inex- 
pressibles. 

Good God ! ’ said Dumps, turning into the aforesaid 


THE BLOOMSBURT CHRISTENING. 


309 


parlor to put his shoes on which he had brought in his 
coat-pocket, and still more appalled by the sight of 
seven fresh-drawn corks, and a corresponding number of 
decanters. “ How many people are there up-stairs ? ” 

“ Oh, not above thirty-five. We’ve had the carpet 
taken up in the back drawing-room, and the piano and 
the card-tables are in the front. Jemima thought we'd 
better have a regular sit-down supper in the front parlor, 
because of the speechifying, and all that. But, Lord i 
uncle, what’s the matter ? ” continued the excited little 
man, as Dumps stood with one shoe on, rummaging his 
pockets with the most frightful distortion of visage. 
“ What have you lost ? Your pocket-book ? ” 

“ No,” returned Dumps, diving first into one pocket 
and then into the other, and speaking in a voice like Des- 
demona with the pillow over her mouth. 

“ Your card-case ? snuff-box ? the key of your lodg- 
ings ? ” continued Kitterbell, pouring question on ques- 
tion with the rapidity of lightning. 

“ No ! no ! ” ejaculated Dumps, still diving eagerly into 
his empty pocket. 

Not — not — the mug you spoke of this morning ? 

“ Yes, the mug ! ” replied Dumps, sinking into a 
chair. 

‘‘ How could you have done it ? ” inquired Kitterbell. 

Are you sure you brought it out ? ” 

“ Yes ! yes ! I see it all,” said Dumps, starting up as 
the idea flashed across his mind ; miserable dog that I 
am — I was born to suffer. I see it all ; it was the gen- 
tlemanly looking young man ! ” 

Mr. Dumps ! ” shouted the greengrocer in a stento- 
rian voice, as he ushered the somewhat recovered god- 
father into the drawing-room half an hour after the 


310 


SKETCHES BY BOZ. 


above declaration. “ Mr. Dumps ! ” — everybody looked 
at the door, and in came Dumps, feeling about as much 
out of place as a salmon might be supposed to be on a 
gravel- walk. 

Happy to see you again,*’ said Mrs. Kitterbell, quite 
unconscious of the unfortunate man’s confusion and 
misery ; ‘‘ you must allow me to introduce you to a few 
of our friends : — my mamma, Mr. Dumps — my papa 
and sisters.” Dumps seized the hand of the mother as 
warmly as if she was his own parent, bowed to the 
young ladies, and against a gentleman behind him, and 
took no notice whatever of the father, who had been 
bowing incessantly for three minutes and a quarter. 

“ Uncle,” said little Kitterbell, after Dumps had been 
introduced to a select dozen or two, “ you must let me 
lead you to the other end of the room, to introduce you to 
my friend Dan ton. Such a splendid fellow ! — I’m sure 
you’ll like him — this way,” — Dumps followed as trac- 
tably as a tame bear. 

Mr. Danton was a young man of about five-and- 
twenty, with a considerable stock of impudence, and a 
very small share of ideas : he was a great favorite, espe- 
cially with young ladies of from sixteen to twenty-six 
years of age, both inclusive. He could imitate the 
French-horn to admiration, sang comic songs most inimi- 
tably, and had the most insinuating way of saying imper- 
tinent nothings to his doting female admirers. He had 
acquired, somehow or other, the reputation of being a 
great wit, and accordingly, whenever he opened his 
mouth, everybody who knew him laughed very heartily. 

The introduction took place in due form. Mr. Dan- 
ton bowed, and twirled a lady’s handkerchief, which 
he held in his hand, in a most comic way. Everybody 
smiled. 


THE BLOOMSBURY CHRISTENINTG. 


Sll 


Very warm,” said Dumps, feeling it necessary to say 
something, 

‘‘ Yes. It was warmer yesterday,” returned the brill- 
iant Mr. Danton. — A general laugh. 

“ I have great pleasure in congratulating you on your 
first appearance in the character of a father, sir,” he con- 
tinued, addressing Dumps — “ godfather, I mean.” — The 
young ladies were convulsed, and the gentlemen in 
ecstasies. 

A general hum of admiration interrupted the conver- 
sation, and announced the entrance of nurse with the 
baby. An universal rush of the young ladies imme- 
diately took place. (Girls are always so fond of babies 
in company.) 

Oh, you dear ! ” said one. 

How sweet ! ” cried another, in a low tone of the 
most enthusiastic admiration. 

Heavenly ! ” added a third. 

“ Oh ! what dear little arms ! ” said a fourth, holding 
up an arm and list about the size and shape of the leg 
of a fowl cleanly picked. 

“ Did you ever ! ” — said a little coquette with a large 
bustle, who looked like a French lithograph, appealing to 
a gentleman in three waistcoats — ‘‘ Did you ever ! ” 

Never in my life,” returned her admirer, pulling up 
his collar. 

“ Oh ! do let me take it, nurse,” cried another young 
lady. The love ! ” 

‘‘ Can it open its eyes, nurse ? ” inquired another, 
affecting the utmost innocence. — Suffice it to say, that 
the single ladies unanimously voted him an angel, and 
.hat the married ones, nern, con., agreed that he was de- 
cidedly the finest baby they had ever beheld — except 
their own. 


812 


SKETCHES BY BOZ. 


The quadrilles were resumed with great spirit. Mr 
Danton was universally admitted to be beyond himself, 
several young ladies enchanted the company and gained 
admirers by singing “ We met ” — “I saw her at the 
Fancy Fair” — and other equally sentimental and inter- 
esting ballads. “ The young men,” as Mrs. Kitterbell 
said, ‘‘ made themselves very agreeable ; ” the girls did 
not lose their opportunity ; and the evening promised to 
go off excellently. Dumps didn’t mind it ; he had de- 
vised a plan for himself — a little bit of fun in his own 
way — and he was almost happy ! He played a rubber 
and lost every point. Mr. Danton said he could not 
have lost every point, because he made a point of 
losing: everybody laughed tremendously. Dumps re- 
torted with a better joke, and nobody smiled, with the 
exception of the host, who seemed to consider it his 
duty to laugh till he was black in the face, at every- 
thing. There was only one drawback — the musicians 
did not play with quite as much spirit as could have been 
wished. The cause, however, was satisfactorily explain- 
ed ; for it appeared, on the testimony of a gentleman who 
had come up from Gravesend in the afternoon, that they 
had been engaged on board a steamer all day, and had 
played almost without cessation all the way to Graves- 
end, and all the way back again. 

The “ sit-down supper ” was excellent ; there were 
four barley-sugar temples on the table, which would 
have looked beautiful if they had not melted away when 
the supper began ; and a water-mill, whose only fault 
was that instead of going round it ran over the table- 
cloth. Then there were fowls, and tongue, and trifle, 
and sweets, and lobster salad, and potted beef — and 
everything. And little Kitterbell kept calling. out for 


THE BLOOMSBURY CHRISTENING. 


312 


clean plates, and the clean plates did not come ; and 
then the gentlemen who wanted the plates said they 
didn’t mind, they’d take a lady’s ; and then Mrs. Kitter- 
bell applauded their gallantry, and the greengrocer ran 
about till he thought his seven and sixpence was very 
hardly earned ; and the young ladies didn’t eat much for 
fear it shouldn’t look romantic, and the married ladies ate 
as much as possible, for fear they shouldn’t have enough ; 
and a great deal of wine w^as drunk, and everybody 
talked and laughed considerably. 

“ Hush ! hush ! ” said Mr. Kitterbell, rising and look- 
ing very important. “ My love (this was addressed to 
his wife at the other end of the table), take care of Mrs. 
Maxwell, and your mamma and the rest of the married 
ladies ; the gentlemen will persuade the young ladies to 
fill their glasses, I am sure. 

“ Ladies and gentlemen,” said long Dumps, in a very 
sepulchral voice and rueful accent, rising from his chair 
like the ghost in Don Juan, “will you have the kindness 
to charge your glasses ? I am desirous of proposing a 
toast.” 

A dead silence ensued, and the glasses were filled — 
everybody looked serious. 

“ Ladies and gentlemen,” slowly continued the omi- 
nous Dumps, “ I ” — (here Mr. Danton imitated two 
notes from the French-horn, in a very loud key, which 
electrified the nervous toast-proposer, and convulsed his 
audience). 

“ Order ! order ! ” said little Kitterbell, endeavoring to 
suppress his laughter. 

“ Order ! ” said the gentlemen. 

“ Danton, be quiet,” said a particular friend on the 
opposite side of the table. 


814 


SKETCHES BY BOZ. 


Ladies and gentlemen,” resumed Dumps, somewhat 
recovered, and not much disconcerted, for he was always 
a pretty good hand at a speech — “ In accordance with 
what is, I believe, the established usage on these occa- 
sions, I, as one of the godfathers of Master Frederick 
Charles William Kitterbell — (here the speaker’s voice 
faltered, for he remembered the mug) — venture to rise 
to propose a toast. I need hardly say that it is the health 
and prosperity of that young gentleman, the particular 
event of whose early life we are here to celebrate — 
(applause). Ladies and gentlemen, it is impossible to 
suppose that our friends here, whose sincere well-wishers 
we all are, can pass through life without some trials, con- 
siderable suffering, severe affliction, and heavy losses ! ” 
— Here the arch-traitor paused, and slowly drew forth a 
long, white pocket-handkerchief — his example was fol- 
lowed by several ladies. “ That these trials may be long 
spared them is my most earnest prayer, my most fervent 
wish (a distinct sob from the grandmother). I hope and 
trust, ladies and gentlemen, that the infant whose chris- 
tening we have this evening met to celebrate, may not 
be removed from the arms of his parents by premature 
decay (several cambrics were in requisition) ; that his 
young and now apparently healthy form may not be 
wasted by lingering disease. (Here Dumps cast a sar- 
donic glance around, for a great sensation was manifest 
among the married ladies.) You, I am sure, will concur 
with me in wishing that he may live to be a comfort and 
a blessing to his parents. (‘ Hear, hear ! ’ and an audible 
sob from Mr. Kitterbell.) But should he not be 'what 
we could wish — should he forget in after-times the 
duty which he owes to them — should they unhappily ex- 
perience that distracting truth, ‘ how sharper than a ser- 


THE BLOOMSBURY CHRISTENING. 


315 


pent’s tooth it is to have a thankless child.’ ” — Here 
Mrs. Kitterbell, with her handkerchief to her eyes, and 
accompanied by several ladies, rushed from the room, 
and went into violent hysterics in the passage, leaving 
her better half in almost as bad a condition, and a gen- 
eral impression in Dumps’s favor ; for people like senti- 
ment, after all. 

It need hardly be added, that this occurrence quite put 
a stop to the harmony of the evening. Vinegar, harts- 
horn, and cold water, were now as much in request as 
negus, rout-cakes, and hon-hons had been a short time 
before. Mrs. Kitterbell was immediately conveyed to 
her apartment, the musicians were silenced, flirting 
ceased, and the company slowly departed. Dumps left 
the house at the commencement of the bustle, and walked 
home with a light step, and (for him) a cheerful heart. His 
landlady who slept in the next room, has offered to make 
oath that she heard him laugh, in his peculiar manner, 
after he had locked his door. The assertion, how^ever, is 
so improbable, and bears on the face of it such strong 
evidence of untruth, that it has never obtained credence 
to this hour. 

The family of Mr. Kitterbell has considerably in- 
creased since the period to w^hich w’e have referred ; he 
has now two sons and a daughter ; and as he expects, at 
no distant period, to have another addition to his bloom- 
ing progeny, he is anxious to secure an eligible godfather 
for the occasion. He is determined, however, to impose 
upon him tw^o conditions. He must bind himself, by a 
solemn obligation, not to make any speech after supper ; 
and it is indispensable that he should be in no way con- 
nected wdth ‘‘ the most miserable man in the world.” 


Sl«> 


SKETCHES BY BOZ. 


CHAPTER XII. 

THE drunkard’s DEATH. 

We will be bold to say, that there is scarcely a man 
in the constant habit of walking, day after day, through 
any of the crowded thoroughfares of London, who can- 
not recollect among the people whom he “ knows by 
sight,” to use a familiar phrase, some being of abject and 
wretched appearance whom he remembers to have seen 
in a very different condition, whom he has observed sink- 
ing lower and lower, by almost imperceptible degrees, and 
the shabbiness and utter destitution of whose appearance, 
at last, strike forcibly and painfully upon him, as he 
passes by. Is there any man who has mixed much 
with society, or whose avocations have caused him to 
mingle, at one time or other, with a great number of 
people, who cannot call to mind the time when some 
shabby, miserable wretch, in rags and filth, who shuflies 
past him now in all the squalor of disease and poverty, 
was a respectable tradesman, or a clerk, or a man follow- 
ing some thriving pursuit, with good prospects, and de- 
cent means ? — or cannot any of our readers call to mind 
from among the list of their quondam acquaintance, some 
fallen and degraded man, who lingers about the pave- 
ment in hungry misery — from whom every one turns 
coldly away, and who preserves himself from sheer star- 
vation, nobody knows how ? Alas ! such cases are of toe 
frequent occurrence to be rare items in any man’s expe- 
rience ; and but too often arise from one cause — drunk- 


THE DRUNKARD’S DEATH. 


317 


snness — that fierce rage for the slow, sure poison, that 
oversteps every other consideration ; that casts aside 
wife, children, friends, happiness, and station ; and hur- 
ries its victims madly on to degradation and death. 

Some of these men have been impelled, by riiisfortune 
and misery, to the vice that has degraded them. The 
ruin of worldly expectations, the death of those they 
loved, the sorrow that slowly consumes, but will not 
break the heart, has driven them wild ; and they present 
the hideous spectacle of madmen, slowly dying by their 
own hands. But by far the greater part have wil- 
fully, and with open 6yes, plunged into the gulf from 
which the man who once enters it never rises more, but 
into which he sinks deeper and deeper down, until recov- 
ery is hopeless. 

Such a man as this once stood by the bedside of his 
dying wife, while his children knelt around and mingled 
low bursts of grief with their innocent prayers. The 
room was scantily and meanly furnished ; and it needed 
but a glance at the pale form from which the light of life 
was fast passing away, to know that grief, and want, and 
anxious care, had been busy at the heart for many a 
weary year. An elderly female, with her face bathed 
in tears, was supporting the head of the dying woman — 
her daughter — on her arm. But it was not towards her 
that the wan face turned ; it was not her hand that the 
cold and trembling fingers clasped ; they pressed the 
husband’s arm ; the eyes so soon to be closed in death 
rested on his face, and the man shook beneath their gaze. 
His dress was slovenly and disordered, his face inflamed, 
his eyes bloodshot and heavy. He had been summoned 
fi’om some wild debauch to the bed of sorrow and death. 

A shaded lamp by the bedside cast a dim light on the 


318 


SKETCHES BY BOZ. 


figures around, and left the remainder of the room in 
thick, deep shadow. The silence of night prevailed 
without the house, and the stillness of death was in the 
chamber. A watch hung over the mantel-shelf ; its low 
ticking was the only sound that broke the profound quiet, 
but it was a solemn one, for well they knew who heard 
it, that before it had recorded the passing of another 
hour, it would beat the knell of a departed spirit. 

It is a dreadful thing to wait and watch for the ap- 
proach of death ; to know that hope is gone, and recov- 
ery impossible ; and to sit and count the dreary hours 
through long, long, nights — such nights as only watch- 
ers by the bed of sickness know. It chills the blood to 
hear the dearest secrets of the heart — the pent-up, hid- 
den secrets of many years — poured forth by the uncon- 
scious helpless being before you ; and to think how little 
the reserve and cunning of a whole life will avail, when 
fever and delirium tear off the mask at last. Strange 
tales have been told in the wanderings of dying men ; 
tales so full of guilt and crime, that those who stood by 
the sick person’s couch have fled in horror and affright, 
lest they should be scared to madness by what they heard 
and saw ; and many a wretch has died alone, raving of 
deeds the very name of which has driven the boldest 
man away. 

But no such ravings were to be heard at the bedside 
by which the children knelt. Their half-stifled sobs and 
moanings alone broke the silence of the lonely chamber. 
And when at last the mother’s grasp relaxed, and, turn- 
ing one look from the children to their father, she vainly 
strove to speak, and fell backward on the pillow, all was 
so calm and tranquil that she seemed to sink to sleep. 
They leant over her ; they called upon her name, softly 


THE DRUNKARD’S DEATH. 


319 


at tirst, and then in the loud and piercing tones of despe- 
ration. But there was no reply. They listened for her 
breath, but no sound came. They felt for the palpitation 
of the heart, but no faint throb responded to the touch. 
That heart was broken, and she was dead ! 

The husband sunk into a chair by the bedside, and 
clasped his hands upon his burning forehead. He gazed 
from child to child, but when a weeping v^e met his, he 
quailed beneath its look. No word of comfort was whis- 
pered in his ear, no look of kindness lighted on his face. 
All shrunk from and avoided him ; and when at last he 
staggered from the room, no one sought to follow or con- 
sole the widower. 

The time had been when many a friend would have 
crowded round him in his affliction, and many a heartfelt 
condolence would have met him in his grief. Where 
were they now ? One by one, friends, relations, the 
commonest acquaintance even, had fallen off from and 
deserted the drunkard. ' His wife alone had clung to 
him in good and evil, in sickness and poverty ; and how 
had he rewarded her ? He had reeled from the tavern 
to her bedside, in time to see her die. 

He rushed from the house, and walked swiftly 
through the streets. Remorse, fear, shame, all crowded 
on his mind. Stupefied with drink, and bewildered with 
the scene he had just witnessed, he re-entered the tavern 
he had quitted shortly before. Glass succeeded glass. 
His blood mounted, and his brain whirled found. 
Death ! Every one must die, and why not she. She 
was too good for him ; her relations had often told him 
so. Curses on them ! Had they not deserted her, and 
left her to whine away the time at home ? Well — she 
was dead, and happy perhaps. It as better as it was. 


320 


SKETCHES BY BOZ. 


Another glass — one more ! Hurrah ! It was a merry 
life while it lasted ; and he would make the most of it. 

Time went on ; the three children who were left to 
him, grew up, and Avere children no longer. The father 
remained the same — poorer, shabbier, and more disso- 
lute-looking, but the same confirmed and irreclaimable 
drunkard. The boys had, long ago, run wild in the 
streets, and d ft him ; the girl alone remained, but she 
worked hard, and words or blows could always procure 
him something for the tavern. So he went on in the old 
course, and a merry life he led. 

One night, as early as ten o’clock, for the girl had been 
sick for many days, and there was, consequently, little to 
spend at the public-house — he bent his steps home- 
wards, bethinking himself that if he would have her 
able to earn money, it would be as well to apply to the 
parish surgeon, or, at all events, to take the trouble of 
inquiring what ailed her, wliich he had not yet thought 
it worth while to do. It was a wet December night ; 
the wind blew i)iercing cold, and the rain poured heavily 
down. He begged a few halfpence from a passer-by, and 
having bought a small loaf (for it was his interest to keep 
tlie girl alive, if he could), he shuffled onwards as fast as 
the wind and rain would let him. 

At the back of Fleet Street, and lying between it 
and the water-side, are several mean and narrow courts, 
which form a portion of WhitefViars ; it was to one of 
these ’that he directed his steps. 

The alley into which he turned, might, for filth and 
misery, have competed with the darkest corner of tlvis 
ancient sanctuary in its dirtiest and most laAvless time. 
The houses, varying from two stories in height to four, 
were stained with every indescribable hue that long ex- 


THE DRUNKARD’S DEATH. 


321 


posuro to the weather, damp, and rottenness can impart 
10 tenements composed originally of the roughest and 
coarsest materials. The windows were patched with 
paper, and stuffed with the foulest rags ; the doors were 
falling from their hinges ; poles with lines on which to 
dry clothes, projected from every casement, and sounds 
of quarrelling or drunkenness issued from every room. 

The solitary oil lamp in the centre of the court had 
been blown out, either by the violence of the wind or 
the act of some inhabitant who had excellent reasons for 
objecting to his residence being rendered too conspicuous ; 
and the only light which fell upon the broken and uneven 
pavement, was derived from the miserable candles that 
here and there dwindled in the rooms of such of the 
more fortunate residents as could afford to indulge in so 
expensive a luxury. A gutter ran down the centre of 
the alley — all the sluggish odors of which had been 
called forth by the rain ; and as the wind whistled 
through the old houses, the doors and shutters creaked 
upon their hinges, and the windows shook in their frames, 
with a violence wdiich every moment seemed to threaten 
the destruction of the whole place. 

The man whom we have followed into this den, walked 
on in the darkness, sometimes stumbling into the main 
gutter, and at others into some branch repositories of 
garbage which had been formed by the rain, until he 
reached the last house in the court. The door, or rather 
what was left of it, stood ajar, for the convenience of the 
numerous lodgers ; and he proceeded to grope his way up 
the old and broken stair, to the attic story. 

He was within a step or two of his room - door, 
when it opened, and a girl, whose miserable and ema- 
ciated appearance was only to be equalled by that of 
2J 


VOL. II. 


822 


SKETCHES BY BOZ. 


the candle which she shaded with her hand, peeped anx- 
iously out. 

“ Is that you, father ? ” said the girl. 

“ Who else should it be ? ” replied the man gruffly. 

What are you trembling at ? It’s little enough that 
I’ve had to drink to-day, for there’s no drink without 
money, and no money without w'ork. What the devil’s 
the matter with the girl ? ” 

“ I am not well, father — not at all well,” said the girl, 
bursting into tears. 

“ Ah ! ” replied the man, in the tone of a person who 
is compelled to admit a very unpleasant fact, to which he 
would rather remain blind, if he could. “ You must get 
better somehow, for we must have money. You must 
go to the parish doctor, and make him give you some 
medicine. They’re paid for it, damn ’em. What are 
you standing before the door for ? Let me come in, 
can’t you ? ” 

“ Father,” whispered the girl, shutting the door behind 
her, and placing herself before it, “ William has come 
back.” 

“ Who ! ” said the man with a start. 

“ Hush,” replied the girl, “ William ; brother Wil- 
liam.” 

‘‘ And w’hat does he want ? ” said the man, with an 
f effort at composure — money ? meat ? drink ? He’s 
come to the wrong shop for that, if he does. Give me 
the candle — give me the candle, fool — I a’n’t going to 
hurt him.” He snatched the candle from her hand, and 
walked into the room. 

Sitting on an old box, with his head resting on his 
hand, and his eyes fixed on a wretched cinder fire that 
was smouldering on the hearth, was a young man of 


THE DRUNKARD’S DEATH. 


323 


"^bout two-and-twenty, miserably clad in an old coarse 
jacket and trousers. He started up when his father 
entered. 

Fasten the door, Mary,” said the young man hastily 
— Fasten the door. You look as if you didn’t know 
me, father. It’s long enough since you drove me from 
home ; you may Avell forget me.” 

“ And what do you want here, now^ ? ” said the lather, 
seating himself on a stool, on the other side of the fire- 
place. “ What do you want here, now ? ” 

“ Shelter,” replied the son. “ I’m in trouble ; tliat’s 
enough. If I’m caught I shall swing ; that’s certain. 
Caught I shall be, unless I stop here ; that’s as certain. 
And there’s an end of it.” 

“ You mean to say, you’ve been robbing, or murdering, 
then ? ” said the father. 

“ Yes I do,” replied the son. Does it surprise you, 
father ? ” He looked steadily in the man’s face, but he 
withdrew his eyes, and bent them on the ground. 

“ Where’s your brothers ? ” he said, after a long pause. 

Where they’ll never trouble you,” replied his son : 
“ John ’s gone to America, and Henry ’s dead.” 

‘‘ Dead ! ” said the father, with a shudder, which even 
lie could not repress. 

“ Dead,” replied the young man. ‘‘ He died in my 
arms — shot like a dog, by a gamekeeper. He staggered 
back, I caught him, and his blood trickled down my 
hands. It poured out from his side like water. He was 
weak, and it blinded him, but he threw himself down on 
his knees, on the grass, and prayed to God, that if his 
mother was in heaven, He would hear her prayers for 
pardon for her youngest son. ‘ I was her favorite boy. 
Will,’ he said, ‘ and I am glad to think, now, that when 


324 


SKETCHES BY BOZ. 


she was dying, though I was a very young child then, 
and my little heart was almost bursting, I knelt down at 
the foot of the bed, and thanked God for having made 
me so fond of her as to have never once done anything 
to bring the tears into her eyes. O Will, why was she 
taken away, and father left ! ’ There’s his dying words, 
father,” said the young man ; “ make the best you can 
of ’em. You struck him across the face, in a drunken 
fit, the morning we ran av/ay ; and here’s the end of 
it!” 

The girl wept aloud ; and the father, sinking his head 
upon his knees, rocked himself to and fro. 

“If I am taken,” said the young man, “ I shall be car- 
ried back into the country, and hung for that man’s mur- 
der. They cannot trace me here, without your assist- 
ance, father. For aught I know, you may give me up 
to justice ; but unless you do, here I stop, until I can 
venture to escape abroad.” 

For two whole days, all three remained in the wretched 
room, without stirring out. On the third evening, how- 
ever, the girl was worse than she had been yet, and the 
few scraps of food they had were gone. It was indis- 
pensably necessary that somebody should go out ; and as 
the girl was too weak and ill, the father went, just at 
nightfall. 

He got some medicine for the girl, and a trifle in the 
way of pecuniary assistance. On his way back, he earned 
sixpence by holding a horse ; and he turned homewards 
with enough money to supply their most pressing wants 
for two or three days to come. He had to pass the public- 
house. He lingered for an instant, w'alked past it, turned 
back again, lingered once more, and finally slunk in. 
Two men whom he had not observed, were on the w^clu 


THE DRUNKARD’S DEATH. 


325 


Tliey were on the point of giving up their search in de- 
spair, when his loitering attracted theii* attention ; and 
when he entered the public-house, they followed him. 

“ You’ll drink with me, master,” said one of them, 
proffering him a glass of liquor. 

“ And me too,” said the other, replenishing the glass 
as soon as it was drained of its contents. 

The man thought of his hungry children, and his son’s 
danger. But they were notliing to the drunkard. He 
did drink ; and his reason left him. 

“ A wet night, Warden,” whispered one of the men in 
his ear, as he at length turned to go away, after spending 
in liquor one-half of the money on which, perhaps, his 
daughter’s life depended. 

The right sort of night for our friends in hiding, 
Master Warden,” whispered the other. 

“ Sit down here,” said the one who had spoken first, 
drawing him into a corner. We have been looking: 
arter the young un. We came to tell him, it’s all right 
now, but we couldn’t find him, ’cause we hadn’t got the 
precise direction. But that a’n’t strange, for I don’t 
think he know’d it himself, when he come to London, did 
he?” 

“ No, he didn’t,” replied the father. 

The two men exchanged glances. 

“ There’s a vessel down at the docks, to sail at mid- 
night, when it’s high water,” i*esumed the first speaker, 
“ and we’ll put him on board. His passage is taken in 
another name, and what’s better than that, it’s paid for. 
It’s lucky we met you.” 

“ Very,” said the second. 

“ Capital luck,” said the first, with a wink to his com- 
panion. 


826 


SKETCHES BY BOZ. 


“ Great,” replied the second, with a slioht nod of intel* 
ligence, 

“ Another glass here ; quick ” — said the first speaker. 
And in five minutes more, the father had unconsciously 
yielded up his own son into the hangman’s hands. 

Slowly and heavily the time dragged along, as the 
brother and sister, in their miserable hiding-place,’ lis- 
tened in anxious suspense to the slightest sound. At 
length, a heavy footstep was heard upon the stair ; it 
approached nearer ; it reached the landing : and the 
father staggered into the room. 

The girl saw that he was intoxicated, and advanced 
with the candle in her hand to meet him ; she stopped 
short, gave a loud scream, and fell senseless on the 
ground. She had caught sight of the shadow of a man 
reflected on the floor. They both rushed in, and in 
another instant the young man was a prisoner, and hand- 
cuffed. 

‘‘ Very quietly done,” said one of the men to his com- 
panion, thanks to the old man. Lift up the girl, Tom 
— Come, come, it’s no use crying, young woman. It’s 
all over now, and can’t be helped.” 

The young man stooped for an instant over the girl, 
and then turned fiercely round upon his father, who had 
reeled against the wall, and was gazing on the group 
with drunken stupidity. 

“ Listen to me, father,” he said, in a tone that made 
the drunkard’s flesh creep. “ My brother’s blood, and 
mine, is on your head : I never had kind look, or word, 
or care, from you, and, alive or dead, I never will for- 
give you. Die when you wilf or how’, I will be with 
you. I speak as a dead man now, and I warn you> 
father, that as surely as you must one day stand before 


THE DRUNKARD’S DEATH. 


327 


your Maker, so surely shall your children be there, hand 
in hand, to cry for judgment against you.” He raised 
his manacled hands in a threatening attitude, fixed his 
eyes on his shrinking parent, and slowly left the room ; 
and neither father nor sister ever beheld him more, on 
this side of the grave. 

When the dim and misty light of a winter’s morning 
penetrated into the narrow court, and struggled through 
the begrimed window of the wretched room, Warden 
awoke from his heavy sleep, and found himself alone. 
He rose, and looked round him ; the old flock mattress 
on the floor was undisturbed ; everything was just as he 
remembered to have seen it last : and there were no 
signs of any one, save himself, having occupied the room 
during the night. He inquired of the other lodgers, and 
of the neighbors ; but his daughter had not been seen or 
heard of. He rambled through the streets, and scruti- 
nized each wretched face among the crowds that thronged 
them, witli anxious eyes. But his search was fruitless, 
and he returned to his garret when night came on, deso- 
late and weary. 

For many days he occupied himself in the same man- 
ner, but no trace of his daughter did he meet with, and 
no word of her reached his ears. At length he gave up 
the pursuit as hopeless. He had long thought of the 
probability of her leaving him, and endeavoring to gain 
her bread in quiet, elsewhere. She had left him at last 
to starve alone. He ground his teeth and cursed her! 

He begged his brea(|^rom door to door. Every half- 
penny he could wring from the pity or credulity of those 
to whom he addressed himself, was spent in the old way. 
A year passed over his head ; the roof of a jail was the 
only one that liad sheltered him for many months. He 


328 


SKETCHES BY BOZ. 


ulept under archways, and in brickfields — anywhere, 
where there was some warmth or shelter from the cold 
and rain. But in the last sta^e of poverty, disease, and 
houseless want, he was a drunkard still. 

At last, one bitter night, he sunk down on a door-step 
faint and ill. The premature decay of vice and profligacy 
had worn him to the bone. His cheeks were hollow and 
livid ; his eyes were sunken, and their sight was dim. 
His legs trembled beneath his weight, and a cold shiver 
ran through every limb. 

And now the long-forgotten scenes of a misspent life 
ci-owded thick and fast upon him. He thought of the 
time when he had a home — a happy, cheerful home — 
and of those who peopled it, and flocked about him then, 
until the forms of his elder children seemed to rise from 
the grave, and stand about him — so plain, so clear, and 
so distinct they were, that he could touch and feel them. 
Looks that he had long forgotten were fixed upon him 
once more ; voices long since hushed in death sounded in 
his ears like the music of village bells. But it was only 
for an instant. The rain beat heavily upon him ; and 
cold and hunger were gnawing at his heart again. 

He rose, and dragged his feeble limbs a few paces 
further. The street was silent and empty ; the few pas- 
sengers who passed by, at that late hour, hurried quickly 
on, and his tremulous voice was lost in the violence of 
the storm. Again that heavy chill struck through his 
I'rame, and his blood seemed to stagnate beneath it. 
He coiled himself up in a projec^ng doorway, and tried 
to sleep. 

But sleep had fled from his dull and glazed eyes. 
His mind wandered strangely, but he was awake, and 
conscious. The well-known shout of drunken mirth 


THE DEUNKAliD’S DKATIT. 


329 


sounded in his ear, the glass was at his li] s, tlie board 
was covered with choice rich food — they were before 
him ; he could see tliem all, he had but to reach out his 
hand, and take them — and, though the illusion was 
reality itself, he knew that he was sitting alone in the 
deserted street, watching the rain-drops as they pattered 
on the stones ; that death was coming upon Ijim by inches 
— and that there were none to care for or help him. 

Suddenly he started up, in the extremity of terror. 
He had heard his own voice shouting in the night air, 
he knew not what, or why. Hark! A groan! — an- 
othc'r ! His senses were leaving him : half-formed and 
incoherent Avords burst from his lips ; and his hands 
sought to tear and lacerate his flesh. He was going 
mad, and he shrieked for help till his voice failed him. 

He raised his head, and looked up the long dismal 
street. He recollected that outcasts like himself, con- 
demned to wander day and night in those dreadful 
streets, had sometimes gone distract(*d with their own 
loneliness. He remembered to have heard many years 
before that a homeless wretch had once been found in a 
solitary corner, sharpening a rusty knife to plunge into 
his own heart, preferring death to that endless, weary, 
wandering to and fro. In an instant his resolve was 
taken, his limbs received new life ; he ran quickly from 
the spot, and paused not for breath until he reached the 
river-side. 

He crept softly down the steep stone stairs that lead 
from the commencement of Waterloo Bridge, down to 
the Avater’s level. He crouched into a corner, and lield 
his breath, as the patrol passed. Never did prisoners 
heart throb Avith the hope of liberty and life half so ea- 
gerly as did that of the wretched man at the prospect of 


330 


SKETCHES BY BOZ. 


death. The watch passed close to him, but he remained 
unobserved ; and after waiting till the sound of footsteps 
had died away in the distance, he cautiously descended, 
and stood beneath the gloomy arch that forms the land- 
ing-place from the river. 

The tide was in, and the water flowed at his feet. 
The rain had ceased, the wind was lulled, and all was, 
for the moment, still and quiet — so quiet, that the 
slightest sound on the opposite bank, even the rippling 
of the water against the barges that were moored there, 
was distinctly audible to his ear. The stream stole lan- 
guidly and sluggishly on. Strange and fantastic forms 
rose to the surface, and beckoned him to approach ; 
dark gleaming eyes peered from the water, and seemed 
to mock his hesitation, while hollow murmurs from be- 
hind urged him onwards. He retreated a few paces, 
took a short run, desperate leap, and plunged into the 
river. 

Not five seconds had passed when he rose to the 
water’s surface — but what a change had taken place in 
that short time, in all his thoughts and feelings ! Life 

— life — in any form, poverty, misery, starvation — any- 
thing but death. He fought and struggled wdth the water 
that closed over his head, and screamed in agonies of ter- 
ror. The curse of his own son rang in his ears. The 
shore — but one foot of dry ground — he could almost 
touch the step. One hand’s breadth nearer, and he was 
saved — but the tide bore him onward, under the dark 
arches of the bridge, and he sank to the bottom. 

Again he rose, and struggled for life. For one instant 

— for one brief instant — the buildings on the river’s 
banks, the lights on the bridge through which the cur- 
rent had borne him, the black water, and the fast-dying 


THE DRUNKARD’S DEATHi 


331 


clouds, were distinctly visible — once more he sunk, and 
once again he rose. Bright flames of Are shot up from 
earth to heaven, and reeled before his eyes, while the 
water thundered in his ears, and stunned him with its 
furious roar. 

A week afterwards the body was washed ashore, some 
miles down the river, a swollen and disflgured mass. Un- 
recognized and unpitied, it was borne to the grave ; and 
there it has long since mouldered away ! 


TH£ END. 


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